The Garbage Man
Each night after supper, Mother wrapped
peelings and throw-aways in old newpapers.
She carried them outside, adding print papooses
to the festering garbage beneath the flat lid.
A sweating giant came once a week,
His transfer can lifted high on his shoulder.
From his truck, he climbed the front steps,
went around the house, and stopped at
our garbage can by the porch steps.
I guess there were different garbage men,
I only saw big, sweaty and a scary color.
From behind the curtains I would watch as
he dumped, left our can open and the lid apart.
In summer, the whole area around the can
buzzed blue with excited flies and yellow bees.
Sometimes I would brave a look inside
to see the wiggly blanket of maggots while
Mother doused the insides with Clorox.
After she flushed with the garden hose, she
dug a hole in the red dirt for the mess.
Her smoothing trowel left parallel tracks.
Weeds did, but grass never grew there.
Some summers wide-faced sunflowers
or determined pink hollyhocks
would volunteer for sentry duty.
BIO: Presently, to keep the juices going, I participate in both a poetry workshop and novel workshop at Long Beach City College, Long Beach, California with Frank Gaspar in the guidance seat. My name is on a neat little plaque in the English workshop room as a symbol of the Drury Fiction Award in 1998. Published a short story in their writers' workshop journal, “Music From a Farther Room,” in Spring 1998 and the Humorous Poetry Award from Writer's Workshop West the same year. Poem included in the Summer/Spring 2006 issue of Pearl. In earlier lives I wrote a weekly newspaper column, and in the outside world, various policy and procedures manuals.
