The town dump’s a knob of barren ground
topped by a shack for the workers
to shelter in on stormy days,
a row of black plastic bins for recyclables,
and two rusted green dumpsters, one for trash
and the other for garbage.

Handsome Jim used to work there,
in charge like a sergeant,
barking orders and helping folks
heave their heavy bags into the dumpster.
At 6’ 3” this former hoops star could reach
the rim easier than a farmer’s wife could.

At the dump no socializing goes on.
Folks greet each other, briskly unload
their pickups and old cars and drive off.
Jim had no use for gabbing there: when it’s
Open only six hours a day twice a week,
folks have to just unload and move on.

Jim bushwhacked our yard – just a field
our small house sits in – so we could drive
up to the front door. We depended on him
for carpenters, roofers, and painters
to keep the place up. Every spring reopening,
we’d look forward to seeing Jim.

Now he’s dead at 55, we just remember him.
The other two men still work at the dump –
the gaunt black-bearded man with the cane
and the stocky blond man with thick mustache.
Taciturn, they help us drop off our load, recycling
bottles, cans, cardboard, and memories.