Before dawn, Highway 6 bridge.
Mallard ducks wobble across wet pavement.
I scatter bread,
grab my big black garbage bag,
take a few morning swigs
to knock off the shakes,
***** it back up.
City sleeps, dumpsters smell of rot.
I climb in, sifting through cat ****
discarded ***** mags from college kids,
Hawkeye Country leftovers.
Up brutal hills,
long runs that burn the calves,
rolled cigarettes scraping my throat,
bag cutting into my hand,
starting to rip
and orphaning a few precious nickels,
dawn still undecided
about letting me live.
Then the other side of town—
limes rotting with cilantro,
old Spanish rice and refried beans.
Aluminum cans equal nickels
for the waiting bottle,
like a cold, shallow reward.
Beemers and Volvos buzz by.
Businessmen on their way to work.
I shuffle past, unseen,
trying not to get hit by their apathy,
daylight swallowing my quiet survival.