“These idiots pay more for the broken
shit,” she slyly exalts - pleased to
sell her garbage and elated it is
now destined to rest in someone
else’s pile. She reveals her
secrets, like I’m some lover
destined never to squeal and
the furthest thing from an informant
or spy. She is wrong, I note -
wedging surreptitiously into my trunk
this treasured purchase, unknown to her
the value. And, unlike a thief, I slowly putter
away in full daylight. The heat is stifling,
humidity burdensome and the smell
the river wafts our way is, at times,
overpowering - a winter’s worth
of decomposition, now a rotting odor
hanging heavy in this stagnant air
until the rains appear and wash it further away.