Starlings live in the rafters
of the South Transfer Station
and sing harmonies,
speeding past in abstract patterns
while bags of trash arc up and up
out of the backs of trucks
and hit the ground
like percussion.
I visit the South Transfer Station
with my dad
when our day’s work is nearly done
and our backs ache and
our muscles tremble because
we tried to outwork each other
again.
Starlings live in the rafters
of the South Transfer Station
and bicker with each other
over chicken bones and pizza crusts
but they are warm and dry
and always have something
to talk about.
At the South Transfer Station,
I think about how
my dad gave me his work ethic,
the one he got from Joe,
and how we harmonize best
with sweaty faces
and grime in our hair.
The smell at the South Transfer Station
is pretty terrible,
but the birds don’t seem to mind.
And knee deep in yard waste
in the back of a U-Haul
I’m thinking about
the time my dad apologized
in this place,
and the sweetness of that memory
rises like incense
and fills the expanse.