Instructions say to put the trash by seven-thirty out
And thus at early hour by the curb the barrels sprout.
But eight o’clock now turns to ten, and soon it’s noon or three
the barrels wait by curb — it’s irksome, you’ll agree.
But on that rare occasion — hadn’t cleaned the fridge in weeks —
And thus I have a plastic bag that positively reeks
the day when morning sun is peeking from the east
I hear the telltale rumble come, that growling, wheezing beast.
So chasing after fleeing truck, I wave the sack of stink —
“Conspiracy!” I shout out loud; what else am I to think?