Garbage Day

Jan 4 2012

Once a week

the garbage truck comes.

The big machine

stutters down the street,

squealing to a stop

lurching lot to lot

stuck in 1st.

A powerful truck,

just itching

to let it rip.

Big men, with sturdy gloves

hop on and off,

impervious to cold.

The bored driver

in his over-heated cab,

viewed through murky glass.

Leaving random cans

scattered up and down the curb,

like neighbourhood drunks

who had staggered home

but couldn’t quite manage

the driveway.

And covers, hastily dropped

or precariously tossed

atop their cans,

looking rakish, casual

tipsy.

We are high on stuff

addicted to newness.

Which means the garbage men

are never done

each and every Thursday.

Whisked away

out of sight, out of mind.

And the empty receptacles

left behind,

give a pleasing sense

of completion.

Empty bottles clink

as they lift and heave,

shatter

in the compacter’s jaws.

Which always keeps

its secrets.