I tidy away mess, 

clearing clutter 

as if it will somehow 

penetrate my head, 

dust the darkest 

corners of my mind. 

I throw into the tin bin 

broken fragments of the 

past, I ponder whether the 

mind has a trash bin 

that can be retrieved 

at any point, or do the 

garbage men call weekly 

in my sleep to empty 

the contents. 

I air out dirty washing, 

throw what no longer fits. 

Iron out creases

 only to crease it differently 

as I fold it neatly.  

I watch as they take my hard work,

discard the neatness and

cram it thoughtlessly into

their open drawer, 

that refuses to close,

over flowing with creased 

garments, hinted memories

thrown together into a heap. 
Karen Hayward ©2016

2 thoughts on “Reflection.

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