Scott Wiggerman 2

S c o t t  W i g g e r m a n

Trash Day

He’s usually better

about hiding the evidence.

But when I set down the plastic bag,

I hear the clink-clank

of broken pottery. I sift

through the non-recyclables—

cellophane wrappers, paper towels

covered in cat barf—

and there, at the bottom,

I unearth the shards

of my favorite coffee cup.

I return from the alley,

retrieve the pair’s twin—his cup—

from the shelf, fill it.

Slurping my coffee,

I don’t have to say a word.