Recently after a trip to the dump (recycling site) to see if someone could pick up a load of junk at my cabin on a small lake, I reflected on youth:
Where in the shade of
a toll booth an
inspector watches
engine oil toys
and appliances separated
from ground waters
in the irretrievable containers
of lost childhoods
seepage slowed
the lake breathes
“can someone
pick up a load at my place?”
I ask across the dusty lot
when I was a little boy
God was a farmer with a straw hat
and milkers driving a cloud with a
a tractor steering wheel
and the expressionless
man in bib overalls responds:
we have someone who
will do it for free
to which
I recall
in this divide
is the other after
the sorting
