The day the garbage trucks came

garbage

 

When do the trucks to come to collect garbage when they’re supposed to?

Never.

When do they even arrive on the right day?

Hardly ever.

When are do they arrive at sparrows’ fart in the morning?

Absolutely never.

Already late for work this morning, I executed a speedy u-turn in rush hour traffic channeling Ayrton Senna and rushed back to the old homestead.

I separated garbage.

I dug in trash.

I managed to get through four bags determined to rip apart.

I lugged the stinking mess to the big black wheelie bin.

I heaved the groaning wheelie bin over three speedhumps and managed to herd two insane dogs up the panhandle.

And what do I see when I make it to the end of the trek?

I’ll tell you.

The backside of the garbage truck riding down the road into the sunrise without my garbage.

Did I take it all back down again?

No.

No, I didn’t.

I just abandoned the wheelie bin for another member of my family to deal with tonight.

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