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Jul 092011
 

by Benjamin Wallace


Tell me you know me,

tell me at least my name.

Tell me I’m not being forgotten

discarded and become obsolete.


I feel like I’m an old tin can

being kicked down an empty street

all the windows broken, boarded up

all the stores and services long shut.


A rustle of paper behind me,

the obligatory yellowing newspaper

flutters after the toe-holed boots

that kick the tin can down the cracked tarmac.


Fresh water seeps from the burst pipes

beneath the fractured road in litres

only to become sullied and tainted

with that multicoloured diesel sheen.


Suddenly I’m not the tin can

but the guy who’s kicking it

only now I’ve lost the thing.

I stick my hands in my pockets.


I believe every corner I turn

and every faded billboard sign

is bringing me closer to…

somewhere I’m supposed to go.


I’ve been walking a while now

and there’s nothing left to do

and there’s a hole in my shoe,

it’s letting in water.


I think I buried something round here

something important, maybe shiny

I don’t know anymore, though

I don’t remember much about much.


I used to be a clever guy

at least the piece of paper

between my fingers, in my pocket

says that I am, or that I was.


What was I? I don’t know.

I don’t remember much about much

not these days anyway

these empty days.


Tell me you know me,

tell me at least my name.

Tell me I’m not being forgotten

discarded and become obsolete.