Garbage

(dedicated to mother India) The garbage collection van hasn't arrive. Two hefty black plastic bags, last night's flea blown rubbish, Waiting to be discarded, I wait. It's almost ten, the garbage collectors arn't coming, I presume. Town-garbage-bin is half a mile far, I don't enjoy going there. Honey, the house stinks - the familiar voice reverbarates. They arn't coming, the garbage-men, I conclude. Picking up the junks, I walk out Into the greased January morning. Crossing the sewer-culvert, carrying waste, I move cautiously across a chessboard of human wastes On the railway track. Suddenly, flames of rain burn the air, drains become alive. Uncaringly, a mother-cow sits on a heap of plastic bags, (not a blade of grass around) chewing plastic, I see tears in its eyes. I may be wrong, how could a cow cry, doubtful thinking. A car storms pass me, slurry of mud hits me square. I become garbage. We stink together. Don't worry, you are ready for your eternal home, I hear god saying, raindrops keep burning, With wet tongues.