By Phil Huffy
Weekly the time draws near for
rituals of consumption and surplusage.
Boxes, tins and plastics
and green bottles drolly hid
are set out at dusk or an early hour.
For walkers of certain inclination,
the refuse yields life’s regimes:
oddities both vegan and organic
and correspondence dampened but revealed
and even medications quietly taken.
We are told all this is somehow reassorted
into useful categories and supplies,
to be transfigured into new and shiny objects
at places technical and modernly equipped.
Our muddy bins go back up the drive.