Garbage Day

Why in anyone’s right mind would someone choose to get up at this hour?

The dream is a bad one. 

Mercifully, the relentless hammering of my alarm interrupts its flow, demanding and redirecting my focus, draining the Sandman of power

I can’t quite put my finger on what the dream was about.

Weird

I almost always remember 

It was something about lack of control

And it was uncomfortable 

But that’s all I’ve got.

I roll my body over, heavy and numb with sinuses and chesty fatigue, and fumble to off the buzzing bee

Swing my legs over the side of the bed and stagger downstairs

What in the world are people who get up this early thinking?

I mumble and mutter through the matte black ground floor, and as if by Braille locate the slatted door switch

Hope this doesn’t wake anyone

The accordion door slowly, noisily retracts into the ceiling and I’m struck by the engineering marvel of it all.

I unlock and open the inner door, expecting a blast of too cold, too early, much too bitter air.

But instead, I’m comforted by a light caress, unexpected freshness.

I slide open our gate and leave the wet bag of trash just outside, ready for pickup, possibly by rats but hopefully by our dog walking friend, doing us a favor in these quarantine times.

Hope he gets here soon

And in that moment,

I pause 

To remember what it’s like to be outside. 

In the distance, a rooster crows, a dog barks.

But here, on this street, at this moment, 

There is nothing

A moment of clarity, 

of peace

And I know I’ve just answered my question.