An old trope taking out
the hackneyed trash
on Sunday morning,
trips over a comma,
crashes, cusses,
spills clichés
about the cul de sac,
shifts to his knees,
scans to see
who might have seen,
clutches wads of crumpled
stanzas as if they had
again betrayed him.
He hunches all his
disposable words
back into the plastic bag,
dumps them resolutely
into the plastic bin,
then stomps back to
the plastic house,
he lives in.