The Black Velcro Underground Railroad

Torn pages of unfinished verse. They can’t know she’s vulnerable. Thrown in the trash to join the other lost travelers. Never reaching their potential, aborted in the womb. Lost to eaters of paper, termites, censoring her as if she had no rights. Or perhaps a garbage collector, or sorter of garbage, finds them. Scraps freed from plastic coffins. Placed in his wallet with others. A black Velcro underground railroad. Gathered together at last and pasted into a leather bound journal. One bought at a yard sale, still usable, only a few pages missing. And upon his death, found by decedents who say, “I never knew Grandpa wrote poetry.” , and pass legends of writers down to their own children. He was so vulnerable.