the trash, man
The homeless people who go through my garbage every week know all of my secrets. Think about it:
They know about the pick-up cycle for garbage in our neighborhood. They know about other cycles, too.
They know that mostly, I eat organic food. But sometimes, I go to Big Boy and order a cheese steak sandwich. With fries.
Do they know the wadded up Kleenex is from crying about my mom?
Empty pill bottles, a salve to my pain?
Do they read the scraps of paper, filled with story ideas? Do they wonder about the ones that I finished, and how they ended?
When they see the broken mirror, do they know I broke it on purpose?
When they see me on the street, are they nodding hello to a stranger?
Or do they know more about me than my own family?
They know about the pick-up cycle for garbage in our neighborhood. They know about other cycles, too.
They know that mostly, I eat organic food. But sometimes, I go to Big Boy and order a cheese steak sandwich. With fries.
Do they know the wadded up Kleenex is from crying about my mom?
Empty pill bottles, a salve to my pain?
Do they read the scraps of paper, filled with story ideas? Do they wonder about the ones that I finished, and how they ended?
When they see the broken mirror, do they know I broke it on purpose?
When they see me on the street, are they nodding hello to a stranger?
Or do they know more about me than my own family?
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