Out of motion
I’m not asking or looking
Or thinking to take anything,
This reflection of dust,
These flickers of survival.
We trust in nothing these days,
It’s just a removal.
The men wait for the bins,
Eager to take it all away,
The junk, the discarded, the small.
These days I am cardboard,
Folded, emptied out, invisible.
A packaging with nothing inside.
We watch dirt blow in balls,
Crossing the street back and forth
In circles neverending, rewinding
Day into night into day.
I forget the moon sometimes.
The evenings turn to grit.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, September 5, 2020
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