Angle

There was something about the recycle bins,

Down on the left-hand side of the garden path,

Something about the way the black one,

The one for glass, now empty, sat diagonally in the green one below.

There was something, too, about the empty Tampax box,

The one on the right-hand of the sink she’d left there

In the dreary bathroom, at an angle,

Waiting for me to pick up and fold.

There was something about almost everything that morning.

Not that it was for him to know what that something was.

No, his was only to register without knowing why,

A point of digression from the dogmatic, uncommunicative present,

An irregular eddy across the flatness that seemed to offer a whisper of hope

And a brief respite from the loneliness of living.

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