w/ apologies to Tom

O shred shred shred they all go into the shredder
The paper into crosscut traces, the paper torn from paper.
The trash bills, cancelled cheques and plaintive requests for money,
The invoices paid and unpaid, the statements and old contracts,
Outdated tech white papers, postcards from decades-past lovers,
Illegible notes and forgotten reminders, all go into the shredder,
And shred the box they filled, and the things best left in ribbons,
And the yellowed Evening Gazettes, the Directory of Scholars,
And warm the blades and jammed the motive of action.
And we all go with them, into the blue recycling bag,
Nobody’s recycling bag, for there is no life lived recycled.