Poignancy of the discarded.
The armless doll that stares
from the trash heap in spring,
the sagging sofa with the cat-scratched arms,
the love-stained mattress in the rain.
Inside-out umbrellas, broken-ribbed,
flapping forlornly in puddles,
and jack-o’-lanterns after Halloween,
askew on compost piles.
Poignancy even of the intact, discarded:
here, today, curbside by the corner post
(among junked chairs and rust-stained mops)
a perfectly good birdcage
with all the fittings: porcelain cups
for seed and water,
ladders, mirrors—all the bells
and whistles—everything
but the bird.
This appeared in the November 2013 issue.
Robyn Sarah will publish a new collection, My Shoes Are Killing Me, in April.
