Tuesday’s Rattle

At noon, the street shakes—a clang

of metal wrestling pavement.

Garbage trucks grind and rumble,

a rhythm sharp as broken glass.

They work in Tuesday’s rhythm,

hard hands, worn boots,

the trash bins rattle like bones,

a noise that cuts through the day.

The clatter haunts the air,

a harsh punctuation mark

in the middle of the week,

reminding me even time

has rough edges.

And still, it rattles on,

untamed and relentless.