trashed

staring at the blanket of clouds
pulled tight across the sky
i ask my son what he sees
amidst them...

"a butt."

and i won't lie,
i can see it

& i
just hope we are not
sitting at the bottom
of the toilet.

an empty bag of potato chips
crinkles as the wind
rolls it across the gravel drive
stopping briefly to say good morning
to a beer can someone tossed
in my yard during the night,
it's metallic skin a tapestry
of shadow and light.