on Thursdays we hear the crunch of the garbage truck
run to watch the garbage man working
underneath the sun
he is young and tanned and wears no shirt
just cut-off jeans
his hair is honey blond
beneath a red scarf turban
a medallion on a chain
dances on his chest
as he builds up his momentum

orang-utan swinging from truck to curb
half-running half-leaping
with a rhythm that suggests
he is keeping time to music

the sun shining down on his shoulders
sweat-slippery biceps bulging
hamstrings hard as hammers
pirouetting pirate
in an innovative free-style
garbage day ballet

we call the garbage man
Baryshnikov
I tell my children
watch him and remember
when
you do the thing you do with joy
you create a thing of beauty
this is the challenge and the task
of being human:

to take all life's garbage
transform it into dance

I bore them with my metaphor
and my children always wary
of my vision from my window
think he's just a man
in a hurry
to get home for a beer


"sup3rmark : can't tell if trolling or actually autistic."