Out front, some asshole leaves half our plastics on our lawn.
Some asshole who'll drag a trashcan he stole to somewhere it will sit
until morning.  The stars look light tonight.

Living downtown it is impossible to not daily acknowledge your privilege,
to not stammer, "No worries," passing through a pack of sketch-bags
each savouring their own cigarette, apologizing as we pass.

Last week after ghosting the bachelor I walked home through the market
and, to feel good, gave a beggar a twenty. He asked if I was sure
and I was and he hugged me, and he told me he was going to Subway.

I hate Subway. I haven't eaten it since post-secondary school.

But I went home so happy, no money for Barefax,
picturing that man asking for meat and extra cheese and three kinds of sauce
and lettuce green as the polymer itself.

Before I put out the cloth diapers I have to remember to get the recycling.
I'm certain those city assholes told the workers to leave it if they see it.
Just fucking leave it and go. Maybe the unions, too.

Half-past five a new nightmare: a gas attack on the sketch-bags and us
and I stick my son in a stranger's arms and tell him to run east
and I run west. He texts me somehow: I saved him.

I look out front. Someone has put everything back.

Jeff Blackman