I implore you to consider
that the trash bag in my kitchen
is a metaphor for life and death

In the beginning a new lining–
Empty; yet full of possibilities
squeezes tightly to its mother

Each second like a month,
each minute as if it’s years,
and a day is a lifetime
when it comes to trash years

Every piece of trash
is like a notch in a belt
or a weathering experience
that you wish never happened
but are still grateful for the lesson

From time to time something
especially messy and sloppy
is thrown right down the center,
all over the sides,
and onto the floor

As the years (minutes) go by
everything the bag has swallowed
builds up from the stomach
to the top of the throat

The once-tight plastic,
now stretched thin,
is unable to hang on
like it once did

In the end, the trash bag is discarded
no longer able to contribute
like when it first got started

Full of holes, tears, and yesterday’s scraps
someone stitches it up
and drags it out back

Off to the garbage cemetery, it goes
what it will come back as
nobody knows