On Mistaking the Dumpster in My Neighbor's Driveway for the Sun

It could happen to anyone this distortion of the real,
a momentary glimpse of red-burst through the needle's eye
of drawn bedroom curtains and suddenly the sun
is within reach, lolling on the gravel path to my neighbor's door
like some party guest face down blotto, head a-blast and too hot
from so much last night's frivolity. Who among us
has the right to judge? Surely we can relate to the sun's predicament.
And so what if the sun has pissed itself and there's puke
in ripening splendor staining the sun's collar.
I once puked running for the john at Garfield Art Works
and everyone there tacitly agreed not to notice. The sun
deserves our same kindly neglect. Ah, but enough of the sun,
the old lush, louche and arrogant as all get out even when in the dumps.
What we want to know about is the dumpster. Its contents,
its character, its sad lonely dreams. Of that all I can say
is they are probably the same as yours and mine.
Smaller than it deserves, larger than this world will allow.