Cling to Dirt

Cling to Dirt

So he’s leaving me
like leftover dirt in the bottom
of an empty pot,
smiling painfully as I feel
the residue of roots and soil peeled
from my face and fingernails,
Bleeding.

Inhaling cigarette smoke
feeling sorry for myself-
antisocialism setting in like fog
billowing thickly in waves
of companionship,
Blinking.

Tarnish clinging to silver
with long-handled spoons, and gloved palms,
while black and green moss
creep over knuckles.
Their spores spread tenderly around
small grey mushrooms,
Suffocating.

White milk and smooth silk
cling to the sides of things
like wet shorts and dogs
and vinegar-stained laughter
lurching out of awkward mouths
with awkward knees,
Knocking.

He’s sitting there absent, deaf,
and indifferent like the statue
on his own tomb
a vegetative cripple staring
into the depth of a dirty pot,
Fingering.
- Sarah Wagstaff