When the Moon is Old
Olivia Meyer
A corpse
of an idea of course
crumpled in a heap
on that bus floor
along with the hazy liquid
and everything else
that doesn’t belong
I tossed it out
the other day
but the heap grows
With every journey I see
her
stuck
under seats
trampled
by everyone else who chooses to ignore her
She doesn’t deserve it
at least I think,
What she really needs
is a good burial
one where everyone cries
I would pick her up
and set her down in that good grave
but there’s too many people
and my hands would get dirty