Putting out trash for pickup;
as much of a ritual
as anything
from my churched days.
More so, in fact.
I was never as devout then
as I am now with careful separation
of recyclables, compostables; with
the regular observance of
timed placement of offerings
at the curb.
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It is a measure of
the times we are in
that this mundanity
feels like a bulwark
against apocalypse.
In this is the hope
that I am doing something,
that this will matter beyond
not having the house smell
of whatever’s in the single bag
and half-crate of plastic and paper
I put out there. Our remnants, our losses,
our surrendered bits and pieces
given up to an effort
to green the world; they
look a little like a future
if you squint.
When I am back inside
and see the news,
I tell myself
that might have to hold me
till next week.