The Sadness of Small Things
The Sadness of Small Things
The tin of beans sits dejectedly on the shelf.
Why is it still there?
It's not like he's going to breeze through the door
Demanding beans on toast.
Not now.
But there they sit.
I don't even like beans.
I take them off the shelf.
I'll give them to the first person I see -
No, I'll leave them on the garden wall,
Someone is bound to take them.
Why didn't he take them?
He took everything else.
Why am I crying over a tin of beans?
I don't want his bloody beans,
I want him.
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