Recounting the Trash

The bin was already half-full of the week,

wet filters and the rinds of things I couldn't finish.

I threw the sweatshirt in because the logic was weak—

that getting rid of the cloth would make the ache diminish.

An hour later, I’m back on my knees,

peeling back the plastic with a shameful sound.

The cotton is heavy with the scent of old peas

and coffee grounds scattered on the ground.

I shake it out, the sleeves cold and damp,

and pull it back over my shivering head.

It’s a stained, pathetic, familiar camp.

I wasn't ready to let it be dead.