Sloshing, a pool of water
ripples and rocks as
I pull the open bin
up the rough concrete, its
wheels a deafening thunder
passing over the cracked,
uneven pavement.
My hands,
slick on the handle
that scratches against my palms,
feel ready to slip,
letting the liquid
run free
as the gray sky continues to
pour its cathartic waters
out and into the earth,
freshening the air with the
earthly scent of worms.
As I stare down into
the ever filling pool,
receiving the troubles
of a crying sky,
waiting to tip over and
spill out until
nothing
remains but a
rough, plastic,
peeling,
empty shell, I wonder
if trash bins understand
depression;
the authentic reality
after the waters
cleanse the
dust and dirt
on the outside and
the scents and stains
lying within.
The wheels stop
turning and, the rumbling
comes to a halt as we stand
beneath the garage roof.
We are left in silence
all but for the soft patter
of rain. A reminder.
I leave the
garbage in its “proper”
place:
isolated,
sitting on
cold wet pavement,
its frame hidden in the
shadows cast by the roof.
I am simply another
abandoner, pushing it
into boundaries
and obligations,
forcing upon the
cruel and callous
condition of being
alone.