The Tuesday Curb

The glass in the neighbor’s bin

hit like a bucket of loose skin.

Seven o'clock and the air is thin

with the exhaust of the week again.

The yellow strap bites my palm,

shaking the morning’s fake calm.

I drag the black plastic like a bomb

to the edge of the street, humming a psalm

for the jars I forgot to rinse out,

for the things I can’t talk about.

Tuesday is a long, slow drought

and the garbage man has his own doubt.