Waste

 

Trash is what you throw away
or, I suppose leave on the floor,
that spins around the river
of its own making. You should see my car; it’s
stamped with mail I haven’t opened,
silvered with cans of pop, shouldered weeks ago,
or yellowed with speeding tickets. But,
she’d sit in my car any way, and I’d drive
wherever she wanted to go, the coffee shops downtown,
the bookstore near the theatre, or somewhere outside the city,
where there wasn’t anybody except the trees.
Her car, it was immaculate, I don’t know how she could let
me be a passenger. Then again, it was always raining
when she did. And the dark waterfalls would splash
from the sewers of a thousand rivers,
as if the world were sick of the place.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s