BAYARD REESE

the swing and toss to muscle up the splattered,
flyblown, clanging side of that truck
everyone else’s discarded burdens.

And stenches: "Oh Gawd yes." He winces, freezes,
jukes that little stutter of a shy laugh at this mess.

Coughs. Cheerfully backs his truck up and waves me on.
Taking it all, the heat, the cold, the perquisite

first dibs on everything, (a dollhouse he pressure-washed
with bleach and sold, their one-month-old striped sofa),

something about this job appeases

most of the hungers of his soul, because
purging pain’s the higher function of the trashman.