“This Is Life”: The Role of Words in Poetry

It hasn’t been cleaned
In what seems to be weeks,
It has changed its color—
Used to be blue, now brackish not even green.

It had its loyalists
Till around ten days ago.
Now even they keep away from it
As if from an HIV positive.

There seem to be
Things living in it.
Frogspawn, birdcrap
Even a tadpole or two, or more.

There are twigs in it
And leaves
And a few covers
That used to contain crisps or somesuch.

I look at it
For more than I would have
Because it makes me think
Of my life.

Not cleaned for weeks
Lacking company
Collecting odds and ends
My own my own my very own (birdcrap green, wet crisp-cover littered) life.