Trying again now with the formatting tips so kindly offered. Here's a poem that's been sitting around awhile
Mound Building
Laundry festers
in sympathy
with the mossy coats
of once coffeed cups,
as chicken bones rattle wearily
in their cardboard prison.
Mutineering mounds of napkins,
kleenexes, and greasy wrappers
loom in the corner –
a paradise of disposability.
Who were the emperors of this lost civilization
Awaiting excavation?


Salon.com
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