Anthony Bianco Poet Free verse

Night Crawlers

It must be in our genes to collect things.
Our bounty paraded along tables and mantles. 
Eventually life shifts gears and priorities change.
Just a batch of clutter too soon to be forgotten.
Marbles and shells boxed under stairs and closets.
Cabbage patch kids kissing attic spiders in total darkness.

Everything will be picked clean after we're gone.
Pennies on the dollar strewn on the front lawn.
The gift of sentiment tossed to the edge of the road
Night crawlers creep in to pick what's left off the bone.

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Caren Krutsinger November 27, 2018 at 11:32 AM I collect people, and social media was a way to get in touch with them. It was hilarious to me today that my college roommate, who has been my "social media" friend for at least nine years asked me when I moved to Kansas. Um, twelve years ago. So much for being close. This poem brings it all home for me. I have been to estate sales, and frankly, nothing feels colder, meaner, or less private. It feels like the buzzards are there to get what is left of the road kill. I keep thinking I need to sort, but even I am intimidated by all this junk.