Dumpster Filler


If I was a fiend for definitions this might appear as a metaphor, or worse a statement: I watched a man vault into the air and land inside a dumpster. He sealed the lid with fingers censored at their tips by darkness, barely visible through a streetlight’s amber bloom. It was storming, books were quivering on my shelves and Voltaire and Ellison defied the winds, remained calm as bonsai trees flourishing through a drought. I was surrounded by dirty laundry, empty beer cans, but nothing as complicated as dumpster filler. I could’ve invited him inside where it was dry. Offered him some filtered water lurking in a Brita pitcher. Empathy is cruel and seductive. I was inside a dumpster hearing rain patter on a tin roof. It was cold. I was there due to choices made and opportunities provided, but what have I done to deserve filtered water, or the ability to position myself by a kitchen window existing vicariously through a dumpster occupant?

I’m God’s child. I’m also the Devil’s brother. I’m lonely at 3am which is why I write poetry when the church bells are silent, to understand, to understand what would require a definition. Definitions are Dumpster filler. I guess.

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