Just under the roots of the tall grass
Along this part of the road
That need never be mowed

If you reach down with your bare hands
You will feel the jagged remains
Of a beer can
A broken milk bottle
A clay dish
A buckle
More (there is always more)

There are stories
In the cast off,
Forgotten bits
Fallen from trucks
Wagons, carts
Hands that

Want emptiness

Over time.

Dig deep

With your bare hands.

You will find story.

An oubliette is a dungeon; the word comes from the French for "forgotten place." While considering this prompt, I got to thinking that forgotten places begin at the surface of who we are and can be infinitely deep. What the bits and pieces we try to forget tell us about ourselves can be startling.