I’ve decided it’s no inanimate
object, but rather animate subject.
Each time I’ve tossed a spent cord in my waste
basket, I return later to find it
prone on the bathroom floor. And sometimes curled
on hall carpet, or slumping on the stair.
“Perhaps you’re revolting, in anger hurl
yourself from trash to tile in dark despair
from our lockdown,” I suggest. It doesn’t
answer. Only lies there silent as I
pick it and flick it back in the old can.
“Are you with the CIA, sent to spy
on me?” I whisper. It won’t squeal. The floss
mutely enjoys me leaving at a loss.
Roger Armbrust
May 12, 2020
