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written by: John Grey


Garbage trucks again.
Who needs an alarm clock?
Or partying neighbors?
But if they don't come when they do,
then that's another kind of wake-up call:
the accumulation, the rotting smell,
the necessary detritus of living.

The stuff we shed, leave behind,
peel away, fits securely in tied green bags.
And then those rumbling behemoths
crunch that trash like pills,
spit it out in a dump somewhere.
They never come by when we're not home.
They're loud, cranky reminders that
people may leave their mark
but not always in a good way.

Then they're gone.
Peace returns to my mattress, pillow and myself.
Without even having to look,
I know the sidewalk has been picked clean
for another week
of all that's wasted
just so I can lie here and complain
about the noise.

Finally, I get up,
begin the process of creating refuse once again.
The world bears up as best it can.
My every breath
is in favor of a necessary devastation.

John Grey

John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Qwerty, Thin Air, Dalhousie Review and failbetter.
John Grey

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