maybe it's supposed to happen this way.
whenever Joe the convict raked leaves within the compound,
he would always find scraps that had blown in from the other side
of the double chain link fence
--a ticket stub to a weekend matinee that
young lovers could barely afford to see, a fast food napkin
with lipstick and ketchup stains, an incomplete note
written on rainbow-colored paper, a square cotton
pad the size of a ring box--
these he would gather along with the other leaves,
using both hands to shovel everything into burlap sacks
as fast as he can, as fast as he can, as fast as he possibly can
until there was nothing left
but grass and his tired breathing.
maybe it's supposed to happen this way.