On Glover St.’s sunny side,
a long liquid stain leaks
beneath the junk-deco bin,
streaks broadly to the kerb.
Why does the waste bin weep?
you ask, pausing to observe.
Perhaps it’s oil-can leftovers,
Teriyaki defeating foam and foil,
three too-tall skinny soy lattes
from Cinnamon Twisp upstreet,
or overripe zucchini rejected
from some September back seat.
But the waste bin weeps not
for the things we do throw out.
No, in this day and waning age
it weeps for the things we do not.