You drive,
then dive,
hoping to find
treasure troves
of discarded trinkets,
among heaping mounds
of melancholy trash,
evidence of wasteful,
cluttered lives
simplified
by Hefty bags.
Digging,
sifting,
sometimes coughing,
always seeking
beautiful booty
among swarming flies,
you're a 21st-century
urban anthropologist
with an exacting eye,
a steady hand
and a can of Off
as your only friend.
Blinking,
sweating,
you breathe
toxic fumes
of cat piss
and pickle juice
with undertones
of Eternity by Calvin Klein.
Amidst a delicate bouquet
of Aqua Velva,
and Aqua Net,
you step over
yesterday's leftovers,
broken toilet seats,
and coffee grounds
You beam
as you encounter
designer labels,
last-year's Versace
and Prada
and a pile
of other lesser names.
(Even in the garbage can classicism still reigns.)
You bend,
kick,
sort,
band squint;
you rifle
through shopping bags
and handbags,
stopping only
to peruse
a tome
of Neruda's
Elemental Odes.
You search
and search
until you meet
your daily quota.
As darkness falls,
and your vision fades,
you load
your burgundy
Land Cruiser,
and drive
home
to inventory
your find.
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