Trashy Memories
The man who collected our trash
drove a nineteen twenty-six Nash.
After it became an antique
all its joints had begun to leak.
We heard him coming from afar
because of his ramshackle car.
It was like his own signature
and like him, it seemed to endure.
The town couldn’t live without him
but we knew little about him.
His sons now come with brand new trucks
and each load costs us twenty bucks.
That’s the way everything goes
as the town and inflation grows.

Walt Abbott–10-10-08