A Nickel

by

Thomas Michael McDade

Garbage pickup long ago
in Prospect Heights
was metal banging
and brakes
screeching high notes
before the rising
hopper roared
like a herd
of circus elephants
but there was no hint
of cotton candy
in the stench.
The garbage pail
set in cement
by the step
had a trap door lid.
One foot on its edge,
the other on the pedal,
there was banging
to be done
with a drum in mind
or soft rocking
just to pass the time.
The collectors left
behind a world
of maggots
as thick as rice
or coconut.
Five cents bought
a Hood bottle full
of kerosene at Thorpe’s
Garage to purify
the garbage pail
and flames shot out
like a cannon firing.
Kids without nickels waited
for the maggots to turn into flies,
grabbed them mid-flight
to bounce off a brick wall.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at The Twelfth of Never
by: Robert Cameron Hazelton
from: Amsterdam, NY, US

To visit all of Thomas Michael McDade's poems, click HERE

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