Trash Day

In early August thunderstorms push
flash floods into the car-plowed furrows
of the historic street and lay
two inches of water along the house foundation.

Thursday morning I sit on the porch
with a side view of the swamped lawn
and front-row exposure to the hammer
of rain over neglected gutters.

Tips of grass blades lean over the water
toward the sidewalk, a dirty tributary to the alley
where the garbage truck idles.
From my patio chair I can see
the yellow slicker of the trash man
lurch toward the green city-supplied cans.

In the gray caste of the day
the white bags snap from his arm
into the back of the truck
like sodden sheets jerked free of the line.