A/N: This is a review of one of the scenes in the prose poem The Devious Trash Can by S.M. Bednarz. The first part of this text is his work, and I am in no way creditable for it. If you’re interested in anything else of his writing you can find it for free at:
The Poem The Devious Trash Can:
I wonder what it’s like to be a trash can. A can of trash. It’s standing to my right. As I write this I can only make its crimson colour out of my peripheral vision but that’s enough to keep tabs on it. And I can’t help but wonder. Of course the obvious reaction is to feel disguised, to feel used by mostly everyone, who past. Am I talking about what it’s like to be used for trash?