Shed
by Alan D. Harris
Shakespeare said we shuffle off
or at the very least shed
unmatched socks
worn-out shoes
faded suits
fit for neither weddings
nor the funeral dance
using the Bard's metaphoric
boiler-plated
bullet-pointed boxes
stacked in the cellars
stuffed with stuff
real and surreal
crowding the corners
of our basements
our foundations
clogging our attics
our minds
we check off each item
until the only mortal coil
we have left to shed
is the last breath we take
to say
sayonara, baby
Gyroscope Review 2! 9