|The Road to Tedium|
I ride my bike past the debris of civilization.
Scattered on the side of the road.
Blown off, thrown off, flown off.
Tire scraps, styrofoam cups, plastic sheets, paper, broken car bumpers, wood pieces, bolts.
Grocery bags stuck on trees.
Dirt strewn cloth.
The evidence of “progress.”
Cars, dump trucks, semis, landscapers’ weed-filled trailers
Choking, thick exhaust.
Bang! Truck hits a bump.
|Where they planning on breakfast?|
Rotten garbage smell.
I scan the ground for treasure.
Garbage is a paint brush.
A tire printing press.
|I used actual chicken wire for this piece.|
Beauty from ugly.
Trash is not mere discard.
Or only proof of slobs passing.
But a distraction from the mundane.
|A fine "brush."|