The King of Trash
Gay Brewer
One Tuesday morning, face up
in the dark you hear a city truck,
its wheeze of hydraulic brakes,
the whir of compactor, the shout
of men holding with gloved hands
before leaping to curbs again.
They pass without slowing, you
turn onto your stomach and pretend
to sleep. Your heart is loud,
your face hot. You've never felt
more alive. From this moment
you manage your debris. That good
relief each week as the bags are
taken anywhere not your home.
No more of that. No more cleansing
on someone else's account.
You shall wallow in a bed of trash.
But will the wife understand as
her vines are overcome?
That's her life out there too,
but she's never shared your sense
of culpability, of Big Picture and yes
of style, even when it stinks.
As weeks go by the strays
don't leave one bag unclawed,
a cryptogram of chicken bones,
shredded towels, rotted pears.
It's July, so maggots throw a picnic.
And to hell with recycling,
each item's use ends here, today.
The cans, the bottles, the jugs.
A kingdom of empties.
The neighbors bitch, cameras roll,
your wife's at her mother's.
Her last damning word to a reporter?
You can't remember. Who foresaw
that keeping a life together,
every bit to apprize and cultivate,
would raise such a storm? Granted,
it's a disgusting performance.
Chewing noises keep the whole street
awake. The flies have grown so
arrogant even blackbirds head south.
Your skin reddens with welts.
You smile and think of Job. Here,
you think, look at my life, nothing
is hidden, nothing is denied.
Months ooze into fall and your
mountain rises, an art of squalor,
with a message you can bear it,
every discarded beginning, every
expiration, a stench reminding
you of potpourri and lavender
as your giddy mind spins under
a notion of this seething garden,
and you climb sinking to the thighs
in a filthy stew of life, determined
to reach the top, to announce
yourself lord as you survey the rich
compost of your dreams.
