Don’t you see, brother,
Holding bags with me, here
On the yard, in your hands and mine,
The leftovers from last night’s
Reverie, a ball game or birthday,
Or a simple family’s meal, beneath a TV,
In the den, around the bar, you and I
Left with what’s left of yesterday,
The unwanted stuff, piled high in the bed
Of our trucks, we drive house to house,
Collections agents, and they’re all-too-happy-
To-give-us-what-they’ve-got, free
And without regret, we’re making a killing
If only this trash were tender, I’d trade you
My cue-tip collection, mint condition for
(what’s that in your hand?) a garden hose wrapped
Tight and bagged, with that
I can siphon and swing, jump rope and circumscribe,
Yes, please tell me you see the brokers we are,
The fun and play our clients are missing,
Tossing their trash into the hands of strangers
Who might well make anything happen
To pass the time
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