a series of minor inconveniences

it’s trash day;
the ravens cackle
at our meager efforts.

bags peek and
torn from under
massive plastic lid.

trash blows
like confetti
through the streets;
we celebrate
our success.

48 gallons
a week is
far too little.

96 gallons
a week
cannot contain us.

we are
bland extractors,
bred to consume.
we are
usurpers,
formatted
for waste.

the land is
now ours;
there isn’t
enough
room
for others.

quiver,
yes,
quiver.
no,
not arrows,
but
bullets.
guns.

Fear
holds us all
in its anesthetic
palm.
terrified,
we grip our guns.
our frailties
exposed
by our armaments.

every day
is
trash day.