The schedule of the street is a heavy machine

The schedule of the street is a heavy machine,

it doesn't care if the house is empty or full.

The neighbor drags his plastic out, dull and green,

moving with the same tired, mechanical pull.

It’s Tuesday again, the clock of the curb,

where the yellow handle vibrates against the grit.

There’s a silence in the afternoon nothing can disturb,

not even the hydraulic hiss when the truck stops for it.

I watch the bins line up like a firing squad,

waiting for the metal arm to take the load.

It’s a strange, industrial way to feel the hand of god,

cleaning up the mess we’ve left along the road.