Poem in Which I Briefly but Profoundly Regret Being Wasteful

Bob Ross

I toss a napkin into the trash, the one
I used to dry my hands,
barely damp and utterly clean —
Then suddenly, in my vision gleams
Scorched, squandered,
The true and only jewel
Beveled smooth by gravity’s pull.
I turn it in my fingers —
Corroded patina. O herald
Of hopelessness, commence this coil!
Blue petals and crude oil;
The pungent narcissus
In the dirt of my brain. I am not afraid
Of death but reckoning,
Shame.