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.

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