a trashcan is a swimming pool for ugly children:
exhausted kitty litter, the jagged moons of eggshells,
brief notes to ourselves now sour as milk.

and i am a pallbearer for that cheap coffin, kicking it
to the curb on a thursday night in october
when the leaves are throwing themselves

away. my friend says that hell
is god’s way of taking out the garbage,
that forsaken sulfur stink, and i think

he’s right: i’ve driven past landfills, pipes
jutting like matchsticks, each with its methane-blue flame
to prevent the whole thing from exploding

like a disposable diaper. so i treat my trash
neatly, dressed in crisp angels’ robes
with red drawstring haloes,

as if that just might get me into heaven.

B.J. Best