The Lock Seven Trash Heap - A poem by Ronald J. Rabenold

Your remains came here without you.
These varnished capstones of your life,
Arrived from a time when humility
Was nudged from the table
Where righteousness now eats alone.
You went on
To gorge from unseasoned dishes.
The pain and joy you ate
Were shared from one plate.

Did you notice how the milk
Drained from your chest
And became cocooned walls
Of wet human happiness?
Nuzzled in distraction,
Your youthful disruptions
Led these smiling Hispanic faces
To be scattered here in the snow.
Those faces weaned
On curdled cream
Unseen.

Freida, I take the lid from your pot
And I see what makes me think
I know how it is with you.
Here, a tarnished urn,
There, a drawer lies askew.
Seeing your clothes
Makes me want to shut my eyes.
I can see some have come here
To nibble from your remains.
Despite the scars
Through coarse grains they guard.
They still show,
These coppered faces
Left in the snow.

All your running makes me question
My stamina against your uncommon endurance
That runs loose and diffused
Like scattering change that
Falls, tinkles, and rolls.
It makes me want to gather myself
For those who will come
To root through my stuff.
To you I say
You can take what you will.

But the pennies please save for Freida,
If she lives still.

Copyright Ronald J. Rabenold January 20, 2011