Michael Lauchlan

Trash Day

He’s hauling out the cans, my old neighbor,
green for recycling and gray for all else. 
He’s missing some teeth and most of his hair
and his long nose drips in the cold.
He looks worse since I saw him last,
thinner and slower with more of a slouch.
I hate to admit it—how much
he calls to mind a dog I put down
years back when she could neither pee
nor refrain from peeing. Frank’s his name,
forgetful coot forever calling me Mark,
then cocking his head when I set him right.
Too brisk today for more than a shout,
I wave in passing on my morning round.
His son was Mark, and long gone,
he told me, and I don’t know but
he might’ve said where. I steer clear
of that abyss whenever he snags me.
You OK? He hollers. Where you been?
My wife thought you might be ill.

Michael Lauchlan has contributed to many publications, including New England Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, The North American Review, Louisville Review, Poet Lore, and Lake Effect. His next collection is forthcoming from Cornerstone Press.