Museum of Trash

fridgeThey were like museums of trash.

Down by the creek was an old ice box up against the bank, its head peppered by bullet holes. Each one clean metal at the center and white paint peeling out around it. There was rust at its hinges and it had bent edges, but the holes were clean.

There was a mangled highchair; coffee cans made of only rust; paint cans and bean cans the same; beer cans empty with their pull tabs gone.

A trash museum.

A dump truck made of solid metal. Its ancient tires just wheels pinching down through rubber. The windshield was crumbling and jagged. A sapling grew out the big hole in the center. The paint was gone and left its skeleton. The blue exposed metal.

truckScrap prices were high. Tom had told him of all the reports from police of people breaking into houses, ripping out the copper pipes, the fixtures. Pulling up anything metal they could find.

And here, 20 tons of it just sitting.

He kicked a coffee can into the thin stream. The metal was heavy from the cold and hurt his foot. But it floated. He wondered where it was going.

— We are an Old Town

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