Disposal Capacity

The hydraulic hiss wakes the whole street,

a metal mouth eating what we no longer need.

I watch the neighbor drag a chair by the feet,

abandoning it for a singular, sticking wheel's greed.

There’s a vanity mirror propped up on the side,

cracked through the middle like a frozen lake.

It holds the gray sky and nowhere to hide,

recording the things we decided to break.

We fill up the bin until it overflows,

then wait for the truck to carry the weight.

Nobody asks where the wreckage goes,

or why we gave up on it all so late.