It’s a Miracle…It Disappears

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.