by Gideon Burton
A parable: You lie there in your bed,
half-sleeping, half-awake beneath the sheets,
a distant birdsong breaks the fog, it spreads
in broader swaths along the morning streets--
no bird, perhaps a train, the far off rumble
in rhythms punctuates your waking drift.
Then suddenly, you flee your bed, you stumble
in instant panic, just next door the lift
and slam of trash truck limbs has emptied all
the neighbors' refuse while your can remains
unmoved beside your house. In shame you haul
your can across the street. Ah, waste, ah shame.
This is the sinner's end, or so it seems:
jerked waking, unrecycled, unredeemed.
Photo: flickr - katypearce
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