In the morning I take out the garbage
Three doors, one corridor, and a bin on my back spilling with rotten greenery.
To the ally where the dumpster lies, myself the subject of blood shot eyes.
Some shout my name behind bright “hellos!”
Morning after morning I wave and wish well
When the load I bear looks particularly cumbersome, a stranger sitting next to the dumpster may lay down his pipe and lend a hand.
On some mornings others will mistake me for one of them “are you working?” they will croon.
Other days are darker still,
When no one even bats an eye,
My garbage cannot disturb the high.
On these Wednesdays at the end of every month I can see life in profound simplicity
Existence can be summed up in two parts
Having and not having
Back in the primal state of hunger and the hunt.
My pock marked ally companions subscribe to something more, addiction beyond reality.
When they call my name we feel the same, strange little humans on a path for connection
But this morning as I stand next to this group of lovely people now wailing and with blood pouring from their veins yelling despair in free refrain
I am guilty to find I feel we are something different.
Possessed by a poppy, some draino, a rock
These beautiful creatures roulette with the clock.
"I LOVE HIM"
"BUT I WISH I COULD KILL HIM"
"I THINK I WOULD MISS HIM"
She writhes on the cement.
In the morning, with my garbage, for my friends I lament.