Piece

Piece

 

With every step taken

a piece is left behind,

dropping off

like beads from last years

mardi gras.

 

Slipping off in the shower

down the drain

wet and dirty,

with a tinge

of blood and iron.

 

And there is a bit

in the bottom

of every whisky bottle,

scattered around the ally

of a youth spent wasted.

 

A piece on an old cigarette butt,

washing down the gutter

of the gray city street.

 

Even in every breath

spent yelling

at pigeons in the park,

a piece is left there too.

 

Soon there may be

nothing left.

 

Maybe that’s not so bad.

 

And although it’s painful

when a piece is lost,

it could be balanced

by the peace

that is gained.