Up and down the street
garbage cans line the curb
waiting for the garbage truck
and men to pick them up,
to clear the debris left
from those trying to stay alive,
and leave something behind
before they die.
Garbage cans on streets and alleys
are on public thoroughfares,
public vessels that can be opened wide
to anyone who cares to look inside
at trash that can disclose truths
hidden inside plastic bags of deceit
filled with their discarded
food containers, chicken bones,
greasy rags and purchase receipts.
All else goes onto compost piles,
or gets recycled into bins
for later pick-up, by different men,
in different trucks, on different days.
Is this how death works?
Are we trash to be decayed
until we become dust
picked up by interstellar winds
and returned to the stars
waiting to be consumed by black holes?
Or, are we picked up
by different trucks to be recycled
into new lives, like a glass bottle or shipping box
to be used anew in some new way?
Or do we become compost for a new garden
in a galaxy far-far-away where lovely flowers grow?
The truth is that no one knows.
So we build stories of future glories
as we place our selves by the curb
afraid to live and use up all we are.
We, imperfect people all,
too often place ourselves in the trash can
and simply wait to be picked up.
annarino writes 