NaPoWriMo 27
The New Thrift
The shape of our lives is a chipped plate, the knees of jeans patched and repatched. Mixing craters of old lipsticks into a brand new color. Cutting the toothpaste tube for one last brush. Nail polish thinned with drops of remover for one more coat. And the coats, passed down from brother to sister. Welcome to the new thrift. Teabags steeped twice for an extra half-cup, in the handle-less teacup destined to become a spring planter. Last night’s baked chicken becomes tomorrow’s chicken salad becomes Tuesday’s noodle soup. Words in poems I renew, reuse, recycle. The art of thrift isn’t too hard to master. Mend it (Save it!) to fend off disaster.
(Yes, I know. The last lines is a complete rip from Elizabeth Bishop's One Art. Decided to give myself a break and write something cheesy. Must get some sleep tonight. Confessions tomorrow.)
The shape of our lives is a chipped plate, the knees of jeans patched and repatched. Mixing craters of old lipsticks into a brand new color. Cutting the toothpaste tube for one last brush. Nail polish thinned with drops of remover for one more coat. And the coats, passed down from brother to sister. Welcome to the new thrift. Teabags steeped twice for an extra half-cup, in the handle-less teacup destined to become a spring planter. Last night’s baked chicken becomes tomorrow’s chicken salad becomes Tuesday’s noodle soup. Words in poems I renew, reuse, recycle. The art of thrift isn’t too hard to master. Mend it (Save it!) to fend off disaster.
(Yes, I know. The last lines is a complete rip from Elizabeth Bishop's One Art. Decided to give myself a break and write something cheesy. Must get some sleep tonight. Confessions tomorrow.)
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