Short Nostalgiahouse Poems

The Garbage Trucks

The house still sleeps,
Coughs, rustles, creaks
scuttle under my closed door.
The truck grumbles into the alley.
It used to be a barmaid 
trashing bottles near
the house where I grew up
making pops and clinks.
Now it's trucks collecting bins,
dumping glass in their broad bellies
huffing away down the alley.