Overflow

The smell first, a wet, sour breath

from the big green box,

behind the grocery store.

Lid stuck open, a gaping mouth.

Inside, the world’s discarded things.

A bright red plastic toy, one wheel

broken off, staring up at nothing.

A deflated basketball, skin cracked,

like a sad, old face.

And books, pages swollen,

ink bleeding, spines snapped.

Someone’s stories,

someone’s knowledge,

just wet pulp.

We just keep throwing it all away,

don’t we?

The broken, the worn out,

the ones we don't want to fix.

Leaving it all for the rain to soak,

for the rats to find.

It just keeps piling up.