Garbage Island

They live in your toes but work at your knees, an hour drive
with traffic at the turnpike of your ankles. Some of them
earn vacation days and drive to your curls in the summer.
They watch from hotel balconies while you pick out colors
and run on treadmills. They spa in your well-manicured
open mouth. They have tiny divorces and tiny tax returns.
They pick up the trash on Tuesdays and set it up on
barges, floating away on your bloodstream. The rumor is it
all collects somewhere— some miles deep and some miles
wide.

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