I leave the things I don't want in my
Pockets and then send them
Through the wash.
Then drainage sends them
To the ocean, and I'm rid of them
His love, in the form of letters and
Their money, in the form of
A bi-weekly allowance.
List upon list of the things that I want,
The things that scare me,
The things that I miss;
They're all the ocean's problem now.
Sometimes I imagine the ocean floor
Littered with notebook paper, and
I get paranoid, thinking that somehow
Someone might still read them.
So I worry about cleaning up the ocean
For a bit but then there's always
Another load of wash
That has to be done.