thanatopical-slooth

Last night the dumpster across the alley was full overflowing, like a tiny apartment had regurgitated itself into the trash. Each item was old and thrift-rickety but not in a way that suggested distant abandonment. A narrow gas oven, folding plaid-woven lawn chairs, jousting lamp poles and various other tinny furnishings leaning furtively. Home objects left outside seem more alive, perhaps perversely feral.
When i crept in like a carrion-feeder, eying lit windows around me for movement, i found the completeness of the dumpster-side collection disturbing. these items so clearly were a whole Something and not discarded parts; my hands reached for the three worn coffee mugs in turn, a sinking chord crescendo-ing inside,
There is a pile of faded photographs in a dish neatly stacked on the rack, pulled down from a fridge i imagine. i snatch them, and two gritty shallow bowls with yellow flowers. The pictures are nondescript; two brown-haired little boys, a flash-bleached family portrait in front of wood paneling.
By morning light the choice items from the pile are gone, picked to detritus, neatly filtered by the vigilant neighborhood. This soothes me. i wash the little bowls like praying