on the poet’s deathbed
I’ve been recycling old words
into new poems
but nobody’s paying attention
instead saying mean things
about illogical intentions
questioning exactly where
they may be coming from
they all get filed away
unceremoniously —until a man
with a truck backs up
replaces the filled to gills bin
with an empty one
nobody ever questioning
how many good ones got away
december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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