I know the people whose garbage I pick up better than their closest friends
they cannot hide secrets and tell lies to garbage men.
I know the lady in the brown house in AA still drinks heavily,
the 3 discarded bottles of Corby’s in her garbage every Monday
expose her feigned sobriety like a knife cutting into a ripe peach.
I silently laugh as I go through the garbage of the upscale couple
who are immersed in conspicuous consumption.
their fancy new cars and discarded upscale clothes are openly mocked
by overdue credit cards and threatening letters from creditors in the same garbage can.
one morning I ask myself, why do the priests at St. Gregory’s need condoms?
until my revelry is broken by clam juice I accidentally spill on my face.
that wretched bastard J. Edgar Hoover could have learned from me
but he was too busy planting wires in rooms Martin Luther King, Jr. stayed in
to appreciate the wisdom of the garbage can.