Curbside Pickup

The engine groan starts at six AM,

a Tuesday morning clock

set by the hydraulic hiss of the lift.

I’m on the lawn in gray socks,

feeling the dew soak through to my heels.

The neighbor’s empty Chardonnay bottles

hit the metal floor of the truck

with a glass-on-glass violence.

I look at my own blue bin,

tipped lopsided near the curb,

full of jars I didn't bother to rinse.