Driving up the landfill’s

ragged road,

I ride shot-gun

in Paker #41.

I’m still wet from the rain,

still tired from picking trash.

I look up

to where the compactor

opens

a new cell,

in which the never-ending stream

of refuse collection vehicles

might dump their loads

of trash,

and see a crow.

The bird,

black against the

gray of a dark sky,

perches upon a rough pine stake,

driven into the compacted trash,

to mark a methane well.

The crow watches all of us

impassively,

an orange strip of nylon fluttering in the wind beneath its feet.

With my truck

parked

at an angle

in a street only a few feet

wider

than the machine itself,

I stand

beside an open window

out of which

leans a middle-aged woman

from Puerto Rico.

She hands me a paper cup

of Café Bustelo,

with a wink and a grin

she informs me

in English

rich

with the Spanish accent,

that half a teaspoon

of this coffee

is better than cocaine

for waking you up