compiling trash
to make a dream house
high above parks
and city streets
deep down below.

strings, wrappers,
shoelaces and bottle caps
are their walls and
living room floors,
they hang no artwork.

tiny sky studios,
built not on good merit
or strong demeanor,
but rather—just built
with what’s around.

whole families grateful
for gifts gone missing,
giving new life to
unmoving everyday objects
cast away by society.

now i think of every
bird’s nest—where they
built it? with what?
their tiny brains thinking
their massive thoughts.

perhaps we are birds,
i have built this vessel
out of things others never
wanted—others have built
themselves out of me.

© Conor J. Josten