a cat meowing

c}{imps 8 my ears

The Gleaners

		Caught in the splash of our cruising headlights 
		as we slow to creep over a tectonic speed table, 
		two men in rags overcoats and hoodies 
		push chromed shopping carts, dark down 
		deserted sidewalk. Side-eyes spark. 

			 Bicycles 	in 		pjeces,  
							
						scrap 		metals		 lawn 	gnomes 

			yard		 implements	 someone's 	dead  

		 alternator 	and 		battery 


					a 	cat		 meowing 

mice pour out in volumes

This is not a world which abides a surplus. 




			I consider calling the town.  
		Then I consider the stars, who worked so hard 
		to fill these yards with enough sidereal scrap  
		to inspire fisty-fights among housey-holders, 
		while the streets we filled with cast-away lives.