The Scrapper as Muse

When my son does not sleep
I sometimes hear the sounds of the scrapper’s cart
behind my house over the creaks his bed makes while
he bounces and autism shouts
On any morning the scrapper
moves from the broken glass alleys to the potholed streets
Stays in the empty bike lanes
Follows his own traffic law
of going east in the west lane
Said to be an unsightly blemish among
rows of empty storefronts, drug needle corners,
the second floor apartments where the fenced big screen televisions go
Detractors as arbiters on their fainting couches
do not understand what vital means
The scrapper takes what he can salvage
Picks out life from spray paint tagged dumpsters,
six AM early dragged out recycle bins
I replaced my son’s bed with a quieter one
Took apart the blue metal frame
Put the screws and bolts in a plastic bag<
Left it all in the alley next to my trash container
In less than an hour it had vanished into
the scrapper’s cart
I wonder if my son’s dreams will be melted
down, decommissioned.
Or repurposed in a way they could be understood


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