As I scrape the bottom of the can
With a fork I used for dinner
(A few weeks ago)
And haven't got around to cleaning
I realise that my life is futile

I probe desperately into the corner
trying to scrounge a few more flakes
or something that smell's worse before it goes off
determindly attempting to garner a few more pence
from a mere fifty-seven pence expenditure

I see the waste around me,
of packaging, from food or drink
and yesterdays must-have item,
discarded like so much flotsum
Billy Bass, lava lamp, glowy electric ball thingy,

I realise that so much about us,
is unneccesary
and expendable,
and I wish all baggage could be refused,
like an old pot noodle

And I realise more:
that the things we hang onto,
and the things we reject
Are often confused
And I wonder if...

...should I have said yes?
...would you have stayed?
...could I have fought more?
...was he worth more than you?
...did I make the right choice?

And then I realise one more thing:

It's just an empty can of cat food.

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