Seneca Lane

When I become a garbage man
I’ll dump out each garbage can
On the ground and toss each
Empty garbage can into the mouth
Of my garbage truck. And drive away.
I’ll be driving the truck, a blue one,
And I’ll hang off the back of the truck
At the same time.
My clothes will stink.
I will pull up to the red house
Over there on fire with the deep basement.
The kid who lived there
Thirty years ago ruined my life.
He could own the hole-fucking world today
For all I care, but not this poem.
Never my rage.