Back Alley Heap

The lid half-raised, a metal maw.

Behind the store, against the law

of simple neatness, stacked so high.

A sour breath, beneath the sky.

That ripped black bag, a plastic spew.

Old coffee grounds, a moldy hue.

Bruised fruit and crusts, a sticky stain.

Just piling up, through sun and rain.

The rust-pocked steel, a dented side.

Where all the unwanted things reside.

It holds the rot, the quick decay.

Just sits and waits, day after day.