At The Transfer Station

We trace the lines of our lives

We wait in lines. Red light, stop. Trucks go in line A; cars wait in line B. You, the sedan, you go to the barracks. That trailer gets sent to the showers.

Amber lights flash through the dark warehouse. A man in rubber shoes and plastic overalls hoses the asphalt and cannot wash away the stench.

A mountain of yard waste and decomposing shoes.

Drywall and shorn braids from a remodeling job.

The Ikea coffee table lands upside down on dusty leather suitcases.

At night, rats scavenge for scraps and wedding rings.

It's not a garbage dump, it's a transfer station.

The detritus of life gone to the relocation camp.