by Joseph Kleponis
In a straight line, like sentries on guard,
The trash cans line the curb, in uniform
Height and color, holding our secrets close
Until the truck will clatter down the street
And with its mechanical arm, snatch
A lidded barrel, and tip it overhead
So the top flaps open and the contents
Crash down into the maw of the truck,
Dregs, scraps, effluvium mixing together,
A stew of the abandoned, the outdated,
The useless, the unwanted, the unneeded,
To be carted to a landfill where
Someday archaeologists will dig into
Who we were and what we aspired to be.
© 2025 Joseph Kleponis All rights reserved.
Click or tap here to see Joseph Kleponis’s profile.
Use the “Leave a Comment” form below to submit comments on this piece.