taking out the trash

I thought a starry sky might save me.

Five-thirty. Just dragging trash to the road. For men to take to wherever it goes.

Under us. Out to sea. Into the air.

Outer space maybe.

First a slow plane with blinking lights—a dinosaur in the sky—carrying passengers. Everyone with plans and places to be, but no control. Then a bullet—a white-hot Mike & Ike speeding just below the stars so high and quick that my brain couldn’t process it.

I’ve seen lots up there in my time.

Light streaks. Bright circles—oblong orbs blasting along.

They stop on a dime. Flash hope. Change direction in a heartbeat. Trail off without goodbye.

All that in the few times I’ve looked up and paid attention.

But even the magic of unidentified light and motion won’t lift me—not today. Waking like this so late in the season.

Restless. Unsteady. Craving something sweet.

Knowing it doesn’t matter.

Because all of this carries on—above and below—with or without me.

~ K.J.