One Man's Garbage Poem by richard ilnicki

This Saturday night I pulled
the shades to drape my mind
from my neighbors.
Their inquisitive invasion into the perceived

dementia having been quarantined
I turned on my infusion pump.
Behind closed doors I felt safe
while holding tightly to the trembling hands of my self.

I completed the addictive insertion with blessed assurance.
Immediate vascular access was achieved,
and the quiet mechanical wonder began to administer
a simple psychogenic solution designed to ease my pain.

The loneliness of being singular,
an iconoclast born with mitral valve regurgitation
and a tell tale heart, soon began to be lifted
on the wings of a pitch black persistent raven.

Feeling quite sedated and invincible I assumed the throne,
ripped the needle from my compliant arm,
withdrew into a small
round corner of geometric conundrums,
and melted down into a puddle of disguised torture.
Before morning broke electric
the malfunction of the drip dropped.
I was quick to notice that the sun had died,
and that my lunar module had landed safely
in the communal incinerator.

From windows behind steel bars
I was confirmed by my neighbors
as garbage.
So I got up for the last time,
casually wiped myself off
then flagged down a dump truck.