In My Heart I Rip Them Open
It is time to throw out the old magazines.
We are moving,
downsizing, facing up to drear reality.
I must admit, though, that I fail to comprehend the necessity.
Tossing them is like shaving my mustache .
If I stand too long reading my back hurts, I get cramps in my fingers.
But were I to sit my eyes would tear, I’d be miserable.
Oh, maybe this one I’ll keep.
Afterwards my pockets are filled with these ancient collectibles
that must have been Babylonian dumplings.
If I had dug in my back-yard I’d have found scraps, like shards of pottery.
I had been thinking that some day my house
would be a tumulus, a kind of Rosetta Stone,
the accumulated magazines and journals like cuneiform tablets,
but these big black plastic bags sit in the driveway;
In my heart I rip open the draw strings
In that I am like the raccoons
who come at night to explore for trash.
It is with them, not my wife, that I empathize.
She says, “You’ve got to throw away everything,”
and would do it for me.
But she doesn’t know, or rather,
doesn’t want to know, what is important.
So I do it myself.
It is like performing euthanasia, a dreadful responsibility.