(in)convenience

This morning as I sit in my
chair on the porch, my tea
steaming and the
grass wet with dew, the
green garbage truck rumbles onto
the street, brakes screeching in protest.
Its claw-arm stretches from
the side of its great underbelly,
reaching and lifting each gray
container, up and over; emptying.
It makes its way around the circle
of the court, upsetting the calm and
scattering the house finches and robins
convened in the street at the edge
of my yard, raising a flutter of complaint.
It lumbers away, completing its work–
under two minutes, I’m sure–then turns
the corner and is gone, though I hear
faintly its lurching as it works
the next street over.

It’s necessary, I know, this convenience
of suburbia; and the finches soon return
to the feeders I’ve filled with safflower
and sunflower seeds, while chirping at me
their sharp annoyance, with which
I heartily agree.

©stephanie pepper, 2020

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