An empty Icehouse
and a vacant packet of Bugel
Is what remains
I think about
what makes you
do such things
In such places
At such times
Is it joy
derived from spontaneity?
Or sporadic impulse
that drives you
The time before
you had left
an empty Icehouse
in a bleu gift bag
No tinsel
No gift paper
Nothing.
Why
do you leave such things
for me?
Your arsenal of
temptation deplore
to afflict
my emotion
I practice restraint
as you find thrill
in rebellion
I am a thinker
of outcomes
as you are
a do-er
of habit
You left
your leftover gift
again
I’d ask you not to leave
your leftovers
But I’m sure
you will continue
to leave your things
Thanks anyway.