Spoon In a Landfill

snow crashed heavy on the fill,
a twirling sonata of freeze
settling thick on a jagged pile
of old box televisions and
defunct exercise machines
(amongst everything else solid
and not looking to dissipate)

a cover-up of seasonal weight
adding girth to the mountains
of consumer memory, flashing white
bold and real against a mauve sunset

somewhere in burial rested ghosts of
energy spindled around the little things
that made up his life:
a spoon given to him by his mother
days before dying, she willed it to him
from a cancerous heave, old national geographics
once stacked peacefully next to her
soft blue toilet, the air fresheners that covered
the mothball scent painting the corners
of their old green house

when she shook the spoon
in his direction he was distracted by
the godforsaken cat chasing squirrels up a maple,
or maybe wondering where his next swell of codeine
would emerge, he ignored her explaining the silverware,
she was so wretched and bony in that prescription bed,
he may have never absorbed her intent, but was uplifted
when he realized she had hosts of vicodan
lined up like an army of saviors in the cabinet
where the mirror was so old it sweated ochre reflections

overlooking the hills of waste
he could sense the spoon in there, and other things
carrying her faded life, and in echo form
the moonlight sonata began to loop in his head,
only the first thirteen notes, over and over
as he turned and made his way in a stumble
toward the smokestacks and section eights,
trading the past for piano notes and
the prospect of a dinner uninterrupted by regrets

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Filed under poetry, published work

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