I am a bin
Your humble biographer
Wherever I may be
Beside the kitchen sink yawning in the morning to catch your cereal packet or an unwashed peanut butter jar
Standing on the landing at University you pass me everyday occasionally greet me with a screwed up tissue.
At lunchtime I watch open-mouthed as you forage fridges of film-wrapped sandwhiches.
Waste. Produce of haste.
You haven’t seen what my grown-up brothers do who graduated into industry or work at the supermarkets on the night-shift.
Finished lunch. Yum - a wooden fork and knife.
At last something but plastic.
Though they’re not going to biodegrade
In a rubbish dump sealed anaerobically.
I have a cousin. He’s a bit of a hippie.
Got his head dyed green.
Thinks he can take most things
Calls himself a recycling bin
He sends two-thirds of his earnings overseas for developing nations to deal with.
Evening. Black Friday.
You come in with a discounted ready meal
I feel a fuzzy feeling, like a stocking on Christmas day.
I am tired
But there is no time for rest
Many miles away
My belly ends and landfill begins.