When there is nothing, there’s the cup of coffee

Early morning,
i step out;
in a heap, in the rubbish pile,
my paintings.
They look ‘belonged’.

Few more displaced to the storage-room.
New companions for the dust,
old tricycle; bicycle, cartons, gunny-bags,
snake skins, live spiders; webs,
wooden planks.
They belonged too.

The pain came in full two hours
late.