Drive by.

May 5, 2013 § 11 Comments

As I walk the edge of Rankin Avenue I picture you rolling your window down and tossing something out.

Unless that something is crawling with ants or is so flat-disgusting even a dog wouldn’t take a whiff, I’ll pick it up.

I don’t know you, but it’s easy to make assumptions.

You like to drink. Beer cans sheathed in brown paper bags squeezed tight and form-fitting, like buxom women in slinky dresses abound.

Just who do you think you’re fooling drinking out of a paper bag?

The long-neck amber beer bottles you fling as far as you can. You must like the weight leaving your hand—can you hit the bushes past the mown stretch by the road? Sure. The bottles poke up, cock-eyed, storing rain water, breeding mosquitoes.

Sometimes you go nonalcoholic. Styrofoam cups with lids and straws bob, almost weightless. Modern tumbleweeds.

Glimmering chip bags catch in the tall grass and flutter.

You are not into health food, that’s for sure.

That Vienna sausage can? Did you hold it between your knees, steer with one hand and fish the sausages out with the other? By the way, they don’t count as health food either.

You like carry out, but never use all the little packets of ketchup. Ditto the wad of napkins.

But you are not always predictable—about that Badazz Mindz CD?

I can see you ejecting those bad azzes and tossing them out the window like a silver Frisbee.

But why? Did you suddenly realize listening was like hitting yourself over the head with a hammer, or did the CD belong to the girlfriend riding shotgun who you were getting tired of?

I hope you didn’t put her out by the side of the road too.

About the diapers? I don’t think “disposable” means out the window at thirty miles per hour.

Bet you think you are just throwing things away. But the only thing going away is you, speeding down the road

Careless.

Disrespectful.

You have no stake in this stretch of road.

But I do. It borders my neighborhood.

So here I am, picking up your trash and thinking uncharitable thoughts, and asking–maybe even out loud–didn’t your mother teach you anything?

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§ 11 Responses to Drive by.

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