The Trash
Collectors
drag old
stoves from the back
of
unpainted pickup trucks
in the
dead of night, hand
crank
clothes drying machines,
inspect
cast iron double sinks
in a
driving rain, oil cordless
industrial fans with 3W40;
their
yards are full of Hot Point
refrigerators, spare car parts,
rusting
engine blocks, plastic
clothes
lines, bleached white bib
overalls
and wet creased denim
work
shirts; nothing that once
worked is
ever thrown away.
Before
dawn they are the shadows
moving
clothes trees, high backed
wicker
chairs, Grandfather clocks,
store
front wooden Indians, later,
they are
the dark forms behind drawn
shades
sharpening pocket knives,
butchering ill‑fed, illegal livestock;
outside,
evenings, they stand
transfixed, shouting at the moon.
Attrition
They are
into front porch
motorcycle maintenance,
greased
monkeys, Pink Floyd
concept
albums, Mad Dog 20‑20,
heavy
leather, teenage girls,
rolling
monster joints one handed,
spooking
the mailman, worshiping
the
devil, modifying things with
tire
irons, cutting up with census,
shoving
policemen through picture
windows;
one by one, over the years,
they kill
themselves off.
In Leonard's
Market
the cash register
total says
$6.66
and the guy's
wife
is freaking
out,
says, "Buy
some
thing else. Give
him a penny.
Get
another pack
of
cigarettes,
gum,
anything."
"What are
you
talking
about?"
"666. That's
the Devil's
number."
"That's a load
of
crap,
Geraldine.
Come on."
"You can't do
this.
It's bad
luck.
Worse than
bad
luck."
"I never
knew
this about
you.
Look, I've
got
exact
change,
six dollars
and
sixty-six
cents.
Come on. We're
holding up the
line.
People are
waiting."
She looks
stricken,
Terrified. I could
see it was the
end
of something
but
I didn't know
what.
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