some days
we noticed the fingers
that rested on our arms and legs

taking what they could
in the little movement they were still afforded

collecting pieces under nails and in wrinkles
celebrating their mechanical pageant of accumulation

stuffing themselves sick to remember
what would eventually be lost
when the grates finally failed

or the lecherous tongue finally rupturing
the bottom of a brown paper bag
filled with discount memories

other days we didn’t notice at all
and wondered if they’d stopped their dance
their digging
their packing and shipping
the plastic wrap and stickers
used to sell rot

or maybe they’d grown tired of the things
they’d gathered

or maybe there wasn’t much left
to remember anyway

diewiththemostlikes

yesterday's spit

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