Taking Out the Garbage and Barefoot Rebecca Najjar Stale breath punts l o n g
soars
high
then drops. drops dull like the front door slams andpinches on fingers caught, then bounces against skin bounces, closes. Pricked toes Hit. Stop. Jump. Pricked toes pull thorns and their chestnut shells off the ground, now clinging to calloused feet, black bottomed and a little bloody. The ground is not cold yet but it will be when more leaves fall.
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I am not cold yet in pajama shorts and a hooded sweatshirt. I will do this until the cows come home, I think. I will move garbage until I die. I sit down on grass beside plastic bags shaped like unwanted things and waiting and waiting and waiting It smells like death alone among unmarked bins the garbage men have not been ‘round for months.
