It’s 6:24 on a Thursday morn,
and I can hear the city workmen
carting off the broken pieces
of our throw-away lives,
the stained and ***** secrets
we thought we got rid of so easily
by simply tossing them into those bins
thoughtfully provided for the purpose
But we never think about where it all ends,
our broken pieces and soiled yesterdays,
piled together in a field somewhere,
waiting patiently to become the soil
that nourishes our tomorrow