Ode to the Garbage Man.
Why are you handling garbage, good sir?
(That is what I want to ask you.)
With a face like yours, why
You could be a model, of that I am positive. I would
Surely buy every magazine, hoping
That you would grace me with your presence...
I think you might be the god Apollo, in the flesh, for
Your smile is as bright as the sun, and the
Hair upon your head is like
I certainly wasn't planning on seeing somebody
Beautiful (like you,)
This morning when I rushed (hair tangled, mismatching flip-flops)
To the street, and handing you the almost missed
Sack of garbage.
You smile at me, you actually smile, and I'm a bit flustered.
(Oh, how I wish I would looked better right then!)
You ask if I have any more garbage for you to take, and
I shake my head no, that I do not.
Only my mind is in the gutter, and my thoughts of you are
Garbage, so I want to ask you again:
You are handling garbage, so why can't
You handle me?
Oh, boy. Where does my mind come up with these things? :P And yes, I was struck that our garbage man doesn't fit the stereotype... ;) The conversation didn't take place, though. :P Just me elaborating on my imagination again. :D
And yes, I am aware that this really isn't an ode, I just thought it was catchy. :D
I didn't really edit, so any improvements to this that you might have would be appreciated! No flames, please. :P
All works: © AvidWriter-92. Fictionpress User I.D. 717443. 2010.