that’s overstuffed
with junk. And over the years
I tear. I’ve slit by skates. Torn by
broken promises. My lining's

scraped by insults, belts, straps
whips and quips. I’ve bulged
with ***** laundry. Life's a quandary of
mismatched socks. Men can’t shut

me up. My hide's thin. The mold inside
me dried. The dolls lost their
heads. I’m squashed
underneath the bed. Dust bunnies are

my friends. They can move around
in the billowing wind from my
bedroom window. I cannot. If
you try to lift me up I’ll only

bottom out. All my junk spills -
without a container to hold the swill
it spews as a venomous snake.
I can stand a new crate.