The choice
Here on the roadside
a new thaw raises winter’s
litter from the dead.
In the ditch, an empty box,
face up, flap opened,
a secret wish exhumed
from within, the words
blazoned on its cover,
“Pregnancy Test,”
like a hidden lede peeled
free from soggy newsprint.
I place it in a bag,
uncertain if I’ve found
trash or fate’s vessel,
my absurd hands
now unwitting warders
guided by an unfettered
choice—to recycle or not.
— Kevin Swanwick
