The smell gets there before I do —

The smell gets there before I do —

sweet, wrong, the way fruit goes

when the decision's already been made

for it.

I've passed this alley every morning.

The dumpster is just there,

the way a bad habit is just there —

familiar enough to stop seeing.

Today there was a photo on top of the pile.

Portrait-sized. Face-up.

Rain collecting on the glass,

the surface going the color of old milk.

Not broken. Not thrown.

Set there — the way you lower a dish

into a sink when you don't want

to hear it land.

I stood there longer than made sense.

Went inside. Made coffee.

Kept thinking about the face going cloudy

under all that careful weather.

I didn't look long enough to know

if it was someone young.

I'm not sure why I'm telling you that.