Journey to the bottom of a trash-bag

It is truly a cherry on top.

Tied neatly,

Like a Christmas bow,

By motivated factory hands,

And whisked away,

Into a truck filled to the brim with Pumpernickel and Rye.

Driven by the unsteady hands,

Of a madman,

Drunk off of carbohydrates.

The uptight twist-tie.

Is perhaps,

More organic in principle,

Than the loaves of bread themselves,

Who are

Filed neatly into transparent sleeping bags.

Filed away from oxygen and insects alike.

The mighty tie is the first line of defense.

Wound into such a dazzling knot,

That the garden-hose would be jealous of its

Microscopic accomplishment.

And turn their brass heads,

In shame.

Only the most determined

(Or Starving)

Fingers can crack this tangled cipher.

Once,

And

If,

The tie is bested

By

Superior extremities,

It will not sulk.

It will not retaliate and release

Noxious gasses,

Or fire deadly darts

Or deploy

                                              Rolling

                                                                Boulders,

This tie is no poor sport.

Because after every

New loaf of bread,

Is broken,

The tie is thoughtlessly tossed,

Into the suffocating depths,

Of a nearby trashcan.

And immediately,

It begins it’s descent,

Like the confident earthworm,

To the bottom of the bag.

It’s goal was and is,

Not to lay

Idle & buried,

Like the defeated,

Banana peels.

Instead,

To provide light

(And insight)

To this low-density Polyethylene world,

With the help of a

Growing pile,

Of  extremely extinguished matches,

That have managed to settle like sediment.

And shine like a monument.

At the bottom of this

Very

Crowded

Tunnel.

Deliberately demonstrating to the drops

Of calcified ice-cream,

And frayed Chinese finger-traps,

That there is more to this

This fantastic,

Elastic wasteland.

Than a simple  life of refuse.

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