yesterday's spit

some days we noticed the fingers that rested on our arms and legs

taking what they could in the little movement they were still afforded

collecting pieces under nails and in wrinkles celebrating their mechanical pageant of accumulation

stuffing themselves sick to remember what would eventually be lost when the grates finally failed

or the lecherous tongue finally rupturing the bottom of a brown paper bag filled with discount memories

other days we didn’t notice at all and wondered if they’d stopped their dance their digging their packing and shipping the plastic wrap and stickers used to sell rot

or maybe they’d grown tired of the things they’d gathered

or maybe there wasn’t much left to remember anyway