Out at the curb,
the can waits for the mothership
as lesser satellites pass in
both directions to and fro
rolling between homes,
errands, occasional revelries,
the like. Breeze, undecided in
its rhythm, playing cymbal splashes
or percussive thwaps meant to shake down
to the marrow. The can, patient in its vigil,
beneath another half-sunned afternoon,
waiting for a moment to be useful.
The dustmen came this morning in the pouring rain, which started just after I put the bin out, so you poem really appealed to me, Leonard! I especially like the sounds in:
ReplyDelete‘…Breeze, undecided in
its rhythm, playing cymbal splashes’
and the personification in:
‘…The can, patient in its vigil,
beneath another half-sunned afternoon,
waiting for a moment to be useful.’