In the outer-cape town of Truro
where rubbish removal
but a fusty, fabled, foreign myth
known only to the provinces
of far off fairylands

Evidence of life
and a blue moon’s month
of passed over profferings
to the putrid, fetid
junkyard pyramids
bursts at the seams
of my creaky, aged
wooden garbage bin.

Pungent, wafting
maliferous bouquet
the spirited olfactress
hovers hauntingly to gloat
a tiresome reminder
a bullhorn of reproach:

“On the insipidities of life
you’ve been swimmingly
under-focused,
on the things keep others ticking
efficiently and fluid
all but bound together
like the waxing, waning lunar pull
on the ebbing and the rise
of ever-shifting ocean tides!”

A question of attending:
lent laimbrained concentration
on life’s vacuous, abhorrent
and tedious details?

Waiving white a loathe confession:
“What I’d rather do is jump!”
avoid the gnawing mission
to the dreaded, humdrum dump.