The Scraps - A Poem, ca. 1960

The Scraps


by Kathy Oddenino


There are the scraps
the leavings that linger infecting me
with that sick feeling that screeches
through my every cell and vessel.
The one track warbling
of a mocking bird,
a needle bumping
in a cracked record.

I rush,
Busy, busy, busy little bee
trying hard to forget you see.
Nothing works.
Nothing makes the ache go away,
nothing replaces your love.
I'm cold,
and it is a hundred in the shade.

I cry,
while others laugh at their silly jokes.
I pull on heavy slacks and a sweater,
alone with my winter.
I eat sawdust with salad dressing,
I plan in panic,
But there can be no plan,
there can be no tomorrow.

Today exists only in the yesterdays
of us.
The walks, the talks, the moments
when we were.
Oh, to be again suspended
if only for an isolated while
in that land of love,
where I could find no scraps.