The recycle truck’s song stabs the a.m.
motley. Hauls a garish parade
band whose rusted spatula wind
chimes mar an aria  

while a dozen dropped trombones
gambol in roughhouse gowns
of beer can taffeta.    

And so, jarred from sleep’s black whole
rest, we groggy and goddamn  

as the grunt chorus
of forced gears,
wheezing hydraulic trauma,
dopplers
to the avenue’s end.