Dedrick Estiltaph

Garbage Man

that sweet nectar of backhand
and chin-scrape
its colonnade
spread manure
across a field
tripe red in Alberquerque/
flush faced
move over soldier
I'm on the up-and-up.
this means (read fella)
you're on the downy-down;
now you
pass on,
pass on.

the wallop wears your face
you tell them to hit
without saying a word
it comes through
so in your stead,
your silence
it was asked for,
if the language
it was spoken,
the derelict it will be done
to you,
and continue
unless you ask it nicely to stop
for a moment and listen:

'I am the garbage man.
I dig my fingers, dirty
as they are, in your laundry.
You can't tell but
that dirt gets in there
and grinds itself a friend.
We become buddies
and hang out after work.
We buy each other society
and it builds a solid home.
We live in it,
breed in it.
We overcome the house
consume its hearth
with filth and
grime til' it spills onto street-wise.
When the pavement's
had enough we move into
your house,
become your ghosts,
whisper in your ears.'

their breath is sour.
the damned orb on the
flame tree blows to high
masks the scent of death.
'convinced it's their flesh rotting? '
another flakeness states.
the body-bruises otherwise
makes a solid case.

a pause,
a whisper:
is it possible
that could I be the mashed-up meat?

the one who smells like
ain't who carries it.
it's the one who burns it all

Poem Submitted: Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Poem Edited: Tuesday, March 23, 2010

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