Homely paper bag, all business, standing attentive, waiting for rubbish, listening open-mouthed for extras, says to the world, "Fill up. Feed me. Spill over. Explode.I am your servant. Walk on me. Wear me like shoes." In there go tin cans empty of their hunger. Snap cans drained of bad dreams, fired, popped shut. Or else the bag is folded like a sleeve in a mental kitchen drawer with other cold things like oven proof bakeware or strainers, cullenders, tongs. Like a sleeve with nothing up it, knowing it can pull things out of drawers, off grocery shelves, out of the frig, the attic, the pockets. Pop tops, peel tins, tab cans. The paper bag, patient creased and cool as a banker in business, crinkable brown listening to a poor risk and a long story. The paper bag. Or it's a boot without toes. They are boots lined at the tree belt waiting for the Doomsday Truck from Sanitation. Halting on the stairs. Cluttering the halls. Reluctant. Old vets waiting for cheks. Feet in the way to trip you. To remind you How we all fall. How we al fill halls with what is left in time when time is all that's left. Old bundles open and close, at last, all ears.