trash night

December 26, 2013 § Leave a comment

it is
the kind of cold
that halts your breath
between
advance and retreat

everything crackling
including mutterings
and hesitant footsteps

a dog, busy
cutting through the wind
with his head down,
caught up in a mission,

stops to watch
as I struggle the garbage tote
through the snow to the curb

his territory

he seems to make
a mental note
to address the business
of the new object on
his next check of
the perimeter

I balance it on the pile
thrown up by the plow
and consider the
benefits of becoming
an ex-pat
under a Panama hat on
some banana republic island

where the only ice
is the ice in my rum

and all the
dogs are lazy

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead

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