Domestic
My baby blue vintage trashcan is
built of dreams sturdy
as its good American steel.
Decaled, happy scenes:
a young woman, head held high,
pushes a baby stroller.
Her wide-brim hat sports
a flower and bow.
A couple rides a bicycle built for two,
an insistent goose follows,
squawking.
My trashcan has a gleaming
inner life. Step on its shiny pedal,
the chrome lid flips up
with a little clang—
yet the trashcan keeps
its secrets still:
when its mouth flies open
it doesn’t invite the whole
damn world in.