Some Days are plastic garbage bags
barely floating in the murky water of a pond,
licked by hungry tongues of lizard’s fog
wriggling in my dirty socks.
Some days are spent wading ankle deep in slush
fumbling with those slippery plastic bags,
hiding what never should have seen the light.
Some days are dirty water fumbling,
clinging like a drowning man,
embracing like a saran wrap of consciousness,
pulling with the weight of sullen lead.
Some days smell suspiciously of dirty snow
icicles of broken sweat, decay of night
and suspected miry body bags.
Some days at winter are very close to death.
Winter and open water make me see floating plastic bags filled with rotting corpses … probably I read to many detective stories at one point. I prefer ice on water in winter, putting a lid on that dark water in a way. Anyway that was my my first though at Fireblossom’s prompt at toads. So I worked those body bags into an extended metaphor.
January 15, 2015