I’m a single mom, which means that all of the typical “guy chores” around the house get done by yours truly. That includes taking out the trash, which in our city consists of not one but three containers: the garbage, the recycling and the yard waste. (I’m in charge of the mowing, weed-whacking and landscaping, too.)
I’d add it to my daughters’ list of Chores They Never Do Anyway, except I always forget about it, and for some reason they’re not stepping up to remind me.
So it’s up to me to do it myself — if and when I remember. Which is usually at the last minute. Or last second, really. And it ain’t pretty.
.
Trashy Dresser
Friday morning
without warning
I hear rumbling from afar.
I wake and wonder,
“Is it thunder?”
Or…a plane? A train? A car?
As it grows nearer,
it gets clearer
that the trash truck’s on my street.
That’s when I doubt
that my can’s out;
my response is oh-so fleet.
Downstairs I go,
small cans in tow,
to dump ‘em all in one big bag.
Outside I hear
noises grow near —
time’s of essence, must not lag!
Quickly I’ve
run down the drive,
dragging my big can behind.
Gravel scrunching,
loudly crunching –
Oh, the neighbors? They won’t mind.
One last swerve
and can is curbed
as trash truck screeches to a halt.
Down hop trash guys,
squinting their eyes
at some visual assault.
Seems they’re staring
‘cause I’m wearing
my old nightgown, gray and frayed —
topped by bathrobe
that has mellowed
to a semi-lilac shade —
plus my sweatpants
pulled out by chance
from the dirty laundry pile —
And on my feet?
the look’s complete
with my fluffy slipper style.
It’s not the first time
that I’ve found I’m
rushing my stuff to the street.
Somehow with this
I’m quite remiss;
remembering seems too hard a feat.
It’s no disgrace,
I now embrace
this trait, and thus my neighbors know
that in my ‘hood,
I’m always good
for a Friday morning fashion show.
.
©2012 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz
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