THE GARBAGE MAN. THE GARBAGE MAN.

  

 

 

 

The Garbage Man. The Garbage Man.

 

 

circa 1956

 

Before there were cul de sacs, 

     we had dead end streets. 

I lived on one.

We’d play baseball swinging a stick at a stolen avocado 

     or flinging a pie plate Frisbee across the way 

     or hiding-n-seeking behind the hedges in neighbors’ yards.

Then we’d hear it.

The groan and grind and growl of an old International truck, 

     rusted to a dusty olive gray.

Or maybe it was a GMC.

Or a Diamond Reo.

Whatever it was, 

     it carried music in its note of approach

     and a Quonset on its back 

     with open sides beneath a rounded top.

The garbage man. The garbage man.

 

He rounded the corner

     from the boulevard to our street

     spewing that delicious blue exhaust.

We waved at the driver

And he waved back.

And we stopped our play to chase after the beast,

     never quite catching up

     but always marveling at the biggest thing --

     the biggest event --

     we’d likely see that day.

Grinning and yelling: 

“The garbage man! The garbage man!”

 

 

The garbage man had a helper man

     who hung on the back of the truck,

     hopping off to tip refuse from our rusty cans 

     into a monster bucket slung on his shoulder.

Every few houses, 

     he’d climb up the truck side

     and dump his burden

     into the depths of the Quonset, 

     never waving back.

His hands were full.

Little tykes that we were, 

     we didn’t understand --

     thinking he was mean or maybe grumpy.

So we all dreamed of one day being…

The garbage man. (The one who drove.) The garbage man.

 

 

circa now

 

Three score years plus a few

I now live on a cul de sac.

The garbage truck, 

     now shiny and white,

     (but sans helper – a mechanical claw took his job),

     weaves through our neighborhood.

I -- and the fellow next door -- wave at the driver

     who waves right back.

The garbage man. The garbage man.

 

At once I am a kid again,

     playing baseball with an avocado,

     tossing that pie pan across the street,

     hiding in the neighbor’s hedge,

     and dreaming about one day being…

The garbage man. The garbage man.

 

 

© 2026

Church of the Open Road Press