When asked my name,
I will say:
dust. dirt.
I will say:
nothing.
Nobody says the name of what
they do not love
I, neglected teddy-bear,
broken crayon,
rusty bike,
worn out shoes,
grimy pennies floating in the bottom
of a purse.
I am the burned out car
in the middle of a barren field,
bee hive buzzing
in my glovebox,
weeds growing through my hubcaps.
Sometimes trash
is just trash
and will never again
be anyone’s treasure.