It burns.

The sagging, despairing meltdown
that characterizes living.

Electronic noises crapping
in the background.

Kids at school.
Dishes in sink.

I feel like dipping my soul
into the dishwater.

Rubbing it clean.

What is clean?

Whose standards are determined?

It tingles.

The blue plastic lid that
sits upon the table.

Lost its container
but I know
a good
envelope when
I see one.

What do I see?

Onion grinds mixed
with garlic frolics.

Spice.

It burns.

Chris G. Vaillancourt

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/surrealistic-cigarette-package-8207/