It's Wednesday,

and the morning sky convulses with the sounds
of garbage, almost as lovely

as the ocean, almost as regular.
My waking body opens from the middle; tight

fisted dreams start to break apart like lightly tethered snores: "ask
Lisa if she ordered paper for the copier"—the note

I didn't write, yesterday at closing, now baffles
round the unhemmed edges of my sleep.

My semiliterate angels wake me,
the garbage truck grinds out its good-bye like the off

key twangs of a Goodwill guitar,
the day feels old already as I unroll it, smooth it,

smooth it till it's wrinkle free enough to wear again.

Copyright © 2007 Nina Lindsay All rights reserved
from Today’s Special Dish
Sixteen Rivers Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission