The Junkyard

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Wails of the abandoned.

The stench of the rancid garbage.

Thin coverings from the cold.

Such are the ways of the house of junk.

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Nothing of value is here,

That’s what they say.

Others wish toss such memories out,

But they are my identity.

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I scan the familiar rubble,

Inhaling the foul odor.

People avoid this yard,

But it is my home, my sanctuary.

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I sit amongst the worn belongings.

A wry smile curls my lips.

In this place of the unwanted,

I am just another discarded memory.