(What You Throw Away)

I am the insomniac
dragging sleep behind me
like an empty red wagon
full of night air. My house

slippers slide over concrete walks
past your house of dreams
where you rest not knowing
how I steal what

you discard of yourself every week
on trash day. I mine bits of you:
letters from your lover, leftover
chicken bones, mostly wings and thighs

reminders of flesh against flesh, whiskey
warmth drained from the bottle, red roses
crumbled to dust, razor blades too dull
for blood or skin and I carry these trinkets

in my wagon for nights.
I dare not close my eyes.

(back)