THE SUPERINTENDENT by Justin Bigos
The air as still as bathwater, no breeze
from Sheepshead, we carry clear plastic bags
of empty bottles and cans, blue plastic bags
of plastic bottles and milk jugs, we squeeze
flattened boxes into open boxes, then tie
it all in twine – but do we cover it
in tarp in case it rains? He says, Forget-
about-it, just like on TV. (I’d died
a little when he asked me for my help
after mumbling something about the blacks
and Jews, this man who once refused to attack
his neighbors in Croatia, then fled that hell
– I’ve heard it said – with three-thousand cash
inside his socks.) And next we do the trash.
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