when memories are scraps

scraps of our life together
scattered on the floor
tossed repeatedly

when our life becomes
junk hoarded

each crystal figurine
seems to, in a dusty coat,
frown
and shake a finger

each newspaper, one
on another,
screams a headline of
war

when the dog sniffs out
an old banana peel

drags it along
thinking, one day, this will be
useful.