They arrive at night, unseen
except for headlights splitting hedge.
All the other scenes are sounds—
arthritic door hinge, radio drowned
beneath the engine’s windy idle.
A trunk yawns up. Cuss and heft
and rattle-shatter. What is it
you cannot stand to live with
any longer? Toss it in
and make a wish. Listen—
quarters chime the offertory
platter. Cherries ringing jackpot
from the slots. The dumpster is
an inadvertent music box,
a mausoleum-portalet—
you deposit what you cannot bother
hoping to forget. Roll the stone away
this time next week, the tomb will be
untenanted. Nothing full of possibility
like emptiness. You can start again.
When there is nothing to be salvaged
of the day, bring it here. Heave it
to the asphalt if you have to.
Leave it in the car, and leave the car.
The noise that you are making
is the song I’ll wake up wishing
I remembered all the words to.
I am trying to sing it back to you.
