I've been far too busy.

Environment conscious, my rubbish is sorted by strangers.

A man in a fluorescent coat sifts through as we pull away
and half my life is spread out on the skip edge; the chef

puppet I used to not play with catches the breeze in his hair,
the Don't Be a Mug mug cracks as it's thrown in with the ceramics.

I am not sad, but there's something about the way they smile,
these men, as they pick up each thing and consider it

for itself. Half my life, context-free, and all I can see are the reasons
diminishing through the wing-mirror with an echo of hilarity

over the sand-filled lizards I used to weigh things down with.