The man in the dumpster

You’d be surprised what people will throw away, you know.

There are gems hiding in garbage bins, things tossed that could be recycled, reused or reimagined.

When did we decide that once-used novelties were destined for dumpsters?

And why, if these items have no value to you, do you look at me as if I’m a thief when I try to revive them?

I have a home, or an occasional one. I work when I can. I don’t traverse your trash cans because I need to. I do it because I believe that you are the one that should be ashamed. Not me.

A garbage haiku:

shards of glass glitter

radiant in the wreckage

concrete chandelier

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The four-year-old in the airport

“Don’t touch,” her mother scolds, but she needs to.

The saturated candy stands, glossy sheets, fuzzy things – how could a backpacked explorer not want to reach out and discover them? Run her fingers over untouched pages; the first to lay claim to their margins.

“Don’t touch!” her mother shouts, but who wouldn’t want to? Should her fingers lay shackled to her hand, fused with her wrist, stuck to her side?

Her mom looks away and she strokes the furry “C.”

Later, when some weary traveller buys that neck pillow, it’ll bear traces of that little girl’s spirit: her defiance, her curiosity, and maybe some jam.

“Let go,” her mother tugs.

She proceeds, empty-handed.