The beeping woke me Six in the morning

The beeping woke me. Six in the morning,

garbage truck. I could have rolled

over but I didn't. The warning

beep-beep-beep in the dark. The old

hydraulic hiss, the metal claw

rising with the light. The things

I'd left on the curb—the flaw,

the broken, the done—everything

disappeared inside. There's something

about watching what you've discarded

get taken away. It starts something

in you. I lay there, hard-headed,

thinking about what I'm keeping,

what I've never put on the curb,

all the reasons for the heaping

of things in my room. The curb

was empty. The truck sealed

and drove. I heard it turn the corner,

still working. My bedroom revealed

nothing but the fact that I'm a corner

of myself I won't clean out,

won't discard, won't let go of.

The beeping stopped. No doubt

about it anymore.