The Garbage Ghost
It is a plasmid wraith of thickened odors,
its organs, the sticky slops
of dead-end days.
It hungers for discarded dregs,
the dispensed with and disposed of
are its haunt,
scraps of yesterday trail behind it
as grey tentacles no longer able
to feel.
Soon the trashmen will
ambush the bins,
heave them into a reeking wagon,
yet it will return tomorrow
smelling worse,
for nothing absolves us
from its un-recyclable curse.
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