2005/monday

Monday morning
the garbage truck
grinds down the street.
First, the one for recycling.
Today he picks metal
from the trash can,
I had not realized
could be recycled.
Framing from the
metal shed we
just tore down.
Now the possessions
it once hid
are spread about
the deck and yard.
Garden tools and cat
carriers,
taxis some people
call them,
an extravagance
of language.
Folding tables
and chairs,
ice chests and barbecue.
I’ve had it well
organized, if I do
say so myself.
Everything wrapped
in plastic bags
so to keep it clean.
The lot of it, including
three off-season fans,
contained in a three
by six-foot space.
Now it lines the deck,
leans against small oaks,
clusters on steps,
creating a white trash ambience
I had hoped to avoid.
A quality too common
in our little lakeside town,
where houses lack storage
or the luxury of a garage.

Where people’s creative
expression takes the
errant nature
typical of out-of-the-
way places.
It’s nearly driven me back to the
Republican town I
fled to get here.
But I can’t afford
to go back.
For now I’m stuck.
That is what I
see in the yards
I walk past.
I got here and don’t
know how to get
out.

As though they bore
signs that read:
I’m stuck.
I put this
broken chair out
back in 1973
and never figured
out what to do
next.
I’m stuck
is the theme,
hemmed in by
my lack of options,
I meant to fix
this chair,
I thought I would
paint it.
But had no place
to sit until
that was done.
I put it out back
in 1973.
I haven’t gotten
to it yet.
I’m stuck,
in the inertia
that comes over me
when the sun sinks
behind the mountain
a5 3:30 p.m. and
I loose all energy.
I’m stuck
in the addictions
that drove me
here.

It’s a strange little
town of misfits and
oddballs, where
the homeless man
who lives with his
three dogs in a car
is an accepted
member of society.

4/4/05