Walking through the parking lots of life
observing discarded castaways floating on seas of gravel.
Protectors shown the contempt of mistreated hookers
thrown to the curbside.
Protectors covered in a soft brown layers of dust
await collection to trash heaps
or burial mounds of leaves.
Uncovering the truth
on how shabbily we treat the old and the useless.
Broken soldiers on cement fields
battle relics evoking wounds of sadness.
Weather-beaten by torrents of rain
colors faded—bleeding red, black and blue onto our streets.
The cigarette butts of our time floating down our gutters.
How we treat the things we no longer need, nor want, nor desire, nor love.
No flag burial for these message-laden pieces of cloth.
Wanting to show some respect
they warrant no less.
But fearing contamination
I show them:
just the distain of the discarded.