Stuff
I have all the stuff of dreams.
Any third world girl might envy my sweet life.
Gathering genes pushed a search
for treasures,
housed with pride,
one might mistake for greed.
The things have not worn out,
I have.
Are they the pain my neck reports?
If rid of them
could the grave be for these burdens,
not for me?
I heard about a friend
whole children brought a dumpster
when she passed,
and all those demitasse were chunked,
tossed out with worn out underwear
and smelly gowns.