your past is sketched in pencil
or erasable pen -
lines of impermanence that you
sweep away in dustpans,
then plug your ears to avoid
listening to the beep of the garbage truck
the following morning.
it's gone
when the sun comes up,
and the rest of your history
is packed in black plastic
garbage bags
that smell funny when you cast them in the fire -
your memories dissolve to ash.
the matches, eighty to a box,
eat away your suffering, and
forgetting is your tranquilizer.
you tell me that you're happy now,
now that yesterday has perished.
names and faces decomposed in landfills
like mistakes.
and i can't help but think
that you should really try recycling.