Another Poem

The Garbage Truck

The garbage truck sputters and rumbles.
Its green metal tusks gnash on the green metal bin.
Its wheels groan under the weight
of severed tree branches, meat-stained paper plates,
flower pots with green twigs still clinging to unwatered dirt,
empty cartons of hot dogs and cigarettes,
bulging plastic bags muzzled with red ties
inside which you can see an old bank statement,
apple cores, tangled dental floss, a handful of spaghetti
like a clump of hair sticky with dried blood.
Even a book at the top of the pile,
a swollen, rained-on copy of the autobiography
of Lauren Bacall.

I want to ask the garbage collector if
he ever worries about transporting dead bodies wrapped in carpets
in the belly of his truck; if he ever dreams
about the end of the world coming in a flood of garbage.

I want to ask him who, in the evening, after dinner,
takes out the trash at his house.