The crust of wasted semen on the carpet
full of dust and weeks of dryness
and particles of toilet paper, wasted,
scrapes against the bottom of my foot.
A tuft of old carpet, unvacuumed, stiff and upright
with a coating of wasted sperm no longer squirming
hopefully towards an egg.
Frozen there and dead and motionless.
Once so slimy, sticky, sweet and optimistic;
then sopped up and dropped into the toilet, and flushed
into the sewer,
or smeared across the carpet carelessly
(What care I for the thrashings of potential life, my child?)
and left to petrify on the filthy carpet.
Crusted and forgotten; futile thrashings forgotten.