The garbage goes... I don't know where. I just know, Two days a week, The bags I put on the curb are gone. They disappear into the maw of an arthritic truck That groans as it pushes the garbage Into a condensed miasma. And then rolls on. And, fortunately, that's all I know, Though I suspect it's trucked Or barged or shipped To places where it raises canyons To noble mountains. Or fills in land that mining's laid bare. And I fervent pray, as does everyone here, That wherever it goes, They'll always be willing to take it.