Poem Draft -- My bin of semi-recyclable junk bemoans its lot

My bin of semi-recyclable junk bemoans its lot

What's your plan,
maker?

This God
is so insecure.

He created me, or at least allowed me
to accumulate.
Now he tries not to think about me.
Won't use me; won't kill me.

I have flecks of steel in me, bright and hard.
if he would let them be gathered
and smelted, they would shine.

What's in you
that anyone would want?

All I wish for is to be dispersed,
to vanish,
to be useful again.

I deserve death. Why won’t you give it to me?

Too much work, he says
And goes on harbouring me in his head and his kitchen,
An unborn Athena.


* * * * * *

This draft came out of a series of prompts to do with objects, and I think the scaffolding is still visible in a way I should probably do something about. But what?

I wouldn't mind revising it a bit before I read it out in Saturday's session. We'll see what Friday turns out to be like.

Thanks for asking after this, sovay.

{rf}