What the Bin Keeps

The yellow crayon, fat and blunt,

scrawled a shape I couldn't name

on thin paper. Years ago.

Now, near the coffee grounds,

a streak of brown where a sun

should have been, maybe. Or a tree.

The corner, soft, damp,

like old bread.

My hand just went in.

Without thinking.

The grit of yesterday’s dinner,

a used tea bag, cold.

I pulled it out, this crumpled thing.

Smelled like coffee, spent.

The paper held its fold, a memory

of being crushed.

What do we save,

from the bin? What doesn't fit?