The Shed

the metal shed

you bought together

on impulse from

the home supply store

is full today of the stuff

of nightmares

the heat the dust

when you crack open

the creaking folded

sheet metal door

sucks away the very air

the clutter the stink

of broken twisted

damaged moldy items

like remnants of a flood

or unnatural disaster

you should have

tossed right after

a viper curled in

the dark recesses  

disguised as a

pointless torn and leaky

garden hose watches

with its brass nozzle head

and yellow protruding

clamp-screw eyes when

you squeeze into

the cramped lightless space

to push the inventory

sort through the crap

for a pair of rusted shears

you thought were yours

to search in vain

for anything that cuts

that's not broken

worthless pointless

after the separation

and contested divorce

to find something

left from all those years

of horrible choices

to help you

clear the vines clinging

to the house to prune

the overgrown climbing roses

with their thorns and

musky fragrant

red

flowers