4/26/30
26/30
"One man's trash..." she said throatily,
like an excuse, her hand a dry leaf
fluttering near her face. She was small,
her head barely reached the lip of
our rented dumpster, tiptoes on rusty
steel. She poked around with a broken
curtain rod like a sad avocet, turning over
trashed shelving and dirty diapers.
"Is that a nail file?" I heard her croak
from my back yard. "I can never
understand why people spend so much
money on their nails."
I opened the gate and called out.
"Are you talking to me?"
"Sweetheart, I'm talking to anyone
who will listen. Is that a bag of flour?"
"Yeah, it's no good. I found it in the
back of our cupboard, it's been there forever."
"That's what they say about me, guy."
yesssssssssss
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