Yesterday's Trash Poem by Adrianne Quinlan

Everyone said it wouldn't last.
"He loves slender women with good hair, " they said.
"You are much too mild-mannered.
He likes them rough, and feisty."

He now lives above the antique shop
Where he works in a one bedroom apartment
With his blond mistress and baby girl.

The rotting moldy smells of decayed matter,
Collected under the cover of darkness
On trash days,
Seep into the apartment through the cracks.

And still good-natured,
I live alone in my three-bedroom house
In the suburbs
With my short afro
And slightly rounder hips.

Every so often I visit the shop,
Seeking treasures,
And I watch his eyes deep, piercing,
And sometimes black and blue,
As he strains to carry heavy boxes
Of yesterday's trash
To stock the crowded shelves.