PARINGS
My bag of fingernail scraps
has filled, bulges
from pants pocket.
“I won’t have another wife.”
He whispers as he works
at peeling a ragged bit
from his pinky.
A boy, rattling past
on a plastic tricycle
leers impishly nature
calls out... “Mommy
knows all about it!”
I hurry to the garage
carefully empty the bag
into the box
with that special smell.
Paul Weinman