Toothpaste, Ketchup, and Yellow Trucks

Poetry

I have a list that goes on for miles,

I made it the other day.

I wrote down all the things that remind me of you,

stuff I should probably throw away.

The good, the bad, and the ugly

I have to bid adieu.

But I really want to tear it up

and pretend this isn’t true.

It begins with the orange toothpaste,

something I used when

I stayed at your place.

I recall the mint flavor on your tongue,

but now that usually sweet taste

has left me bitter and stung.

Next is the bottle of ketchup I see,

sitting there in my fridge

obviously taunting me.

The brand is your last name,

number 57 was on your jersey

at every hockey game.

I’ll see it at the local grocery store,

but I don’t want it in my

fridge anymore.

The final item I cannot throw away,

impossible to do so

because I see it every day.

Yellow trucks roaming around,

and the second I see one

my walls begin to crumble down.

It might not be the yellow truck you drive,

but still I look and swerve

and barely survive.

 

 

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