The Trash Collector

My father, trash collector,
stood at the back of the truck
with determined muscle,
hauling refuse:
bags, cans, containers,
the smell of rot
swallowed into the jaws of machinery,
weathering every storm, every heat.

And still he brought home treasures:
used lamps, tennis rackets, candlesticks,
jewelry boxes, microwaves,
paintings by unknown artists;
he would collect, collect,
then sell them at the flea market,
taking me along.
His boy.

Whatever little money came,
he gave to me
for baseball cards,
necklaces with crucifixes,
wallets with chains.

What came in, went out.
What was stench, was capacity.
What was rust, was gold.
What was forsakenness, was fatherhood.

He was an abusive man.
Except here.
Here, in this place of exchange,
of love,
of sobriety,
a special kind of duet
because it would not always be this way.

He would come to be ashamed of me,
would leave me nothing
when he died young,
except this memory,
except this corridor into the heart.

I was worthy, on those days.
Could I take a washed up scrap of him?
Could he take a broken scrap of me?

Still, still I can't fathom
those days of giving,
given to an adopted son
who could never do enough
to win his love.

Except.
Except on those days,
at the flea market.