The garbage truck of dawn calls me to rise and greet the new day; my daughter calls, in counterpoint, that she’s too tired to rise. My wife replies with discord. Outside, there is shouting: The weird old man from down the street paces the truck from home to home on his antique blue American Flyer, haranguing the stolid city workmen. Politics and children make me want to shout, too. I hope I never get that lonely.
by P.
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Me too. Funny how just a few words can capture the alienation of the city, and of different versions of solitary reality within it. Thanks, P.
I love this.
I can see becoming an old man like that. You’re lucky I don’t live in your neighborhood.
It’s the last line that gets to me. Everything before that is just a normal morning in any city: everyone a bit grumpy, someone with a mission staking the garbage truck. The last line leaves me wondering who’s lonely, and why. All the characters, or only the garbage stalker. See, now I have to continue making the story up!