Many poems by Glory Cumbow like this: Fertile Decay I'm ready. It's time for a compost pile. First come the eggshells that I had to tiptoe on so as not to offend you. Then come the dry leaves from the bushes I had to beat around so that you never had to face the truth. Next are the banana peels, the traps of deceit you laid down to slip me up. After that, I dump in the clippings that I had to cut down to reveal your identity as a snake in the grass. Finally, I sprinkle in the ashes from the letters and pictures that I set aflame. This pile is rotten, reeking of death. But my, oh my, just wait and see the life I will be able to grow from this fertile decay.