Garbage truck Tuesday
while we’re still in jammies, 
sipping drip coffee,
the day a ghost of possibilities.

You say lets make a plan, 
but our diagram fleshes only as far 
as taking the dogs for a walk
around the common loop,

hellos to the same neighbors
as yesterday and tomorrow,
no one anxious to go through
the hassles of packing and moving,

learning the customs of a new neighborhood,
which neighbors freak at having
dogs drop their loads in their yards
even though we always pick up,

which ones go overboard
on holiday decorations,
which keep the bedroom curtains open
and the shades up at night,

having to learn who drinks too much 
and curses kids for simply riding their bikes
on the sidewalk, and who once beat his wife 
and was hauled off in cuffs,

a walk that would end with the dogs’
tongues hanging and us bickering
about the proper name of the color
of the neighbor’s salmon red door

— it’s not brick, it’s not — 
now distraught, our plans 
fade like the poster for a missing cat 
drawn in ink and tacked 

to a splintery telephone pole,
several months exposed 
to wind and weather,
ignored by all who pass it.