Now this is progress.
The trash trucks are new
crisp and clean.
I can see my silver reflection
deep inside the battleship gray panel
protecting the womb where the waste is crushed.
This speaks well of my city -
removing the rust belt that trapped it
inside grungy jeans covered with coal dust.
The city can now put on a nice pair of chinos
and reasonably hope the beige stays clean.
The trucks glide to a tuneful stop
and the refuse managers emerge from the cranium
in crisp clean battleship gray uniforms.
They tenderly lift the comatose
larva-like addicts and homeless
and gently place them in the womb.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
First Published in BOMBFIRE
Those last three lines really nail home the image of the garbage truck as a body.
It’s a little scary…and bitterly sad.
Really good stuff here.
Thanks, Liz. I really appreciate your comments.
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An absolutely terrifying image and a very good poem.
Thanks, Gwen. I really appreciate your comments.