Sitting inside a wooden box disposed,
To the elements of wind and sea and earth
With a cigarette and Shakespeare to hand
Tapping ashes into an empty lager can
Smoke entrailing to the spot on the ceiling
Where wisped heat could set alarm bells ringing
Surrounded by the debris of a student life
Surrounded by the reminders of night:
A broken lighter from a lover, her shirt
A vial of amber and a bottle of vodka
This is where the used things go,
So sweetly domesticated, then thrown;
Compacted once weekly and collected, alone
This is where the used things go
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