Garbage Eve

• There is no better time to see the stars
• than garbage eve. The trucks will trundle
• in the morning, to sweep away bottles
• and bundles of paper in their weekly way,
• but now is hermetic, a moment of magic,
• just me and the silent sky. Sharp chills tighten
• my old body, there’ll be snow before dawn, but now,
• clear skies, reliable Orion winking down, always
• there, crossing the sky from morning to night,
• providing confluence of all my selves
• and their steppings-out, away from life, TV,
• into the quiet of garbage eve.
• There’s a few deep thrums, cars going
• somewhere and a streetcar shudders, but
• otherwise, just me, in my grubby gardening
• coat, and memories merge to a fuller flow
• of ordinary love, first you, then babies sleeping
• inside, then grown, then people lost. I talk
• to them, there’s always the chance they can
• hear me here, outside, just me and the stars
• with the ruins of life, in bins, waiting
• to be swept away in the morning.

Photo by Yousef Salhamoud on Unsplash