Is there a davenport tagged with a scrawling yellow & black plea on a turnpike?
Was it torn in the dark from a concrete block home with a slick dirty square room where nothing is ever missed or mentioned again?
Does it stink of butane, expelled fear, and burned human skin?
Never mind, it’s not our property; don’t give it any notice.
It’s only the Bard’s abstract and brief chronicles of the time.
It’s a suburban basement with papered-over windows, or a single castoff shoe along an Interstate highway.
What story goes untold; and who’s torment vanishes, without full disclosure?
The match was struck without our seeing.
The child screamed without our hearing.
The tourist begged without our caring.
As the debris clutters up along our periphery.