Now this is progress.
The trash trucks are new
crisp and clean.
I can see my silver reflection
deep inside the battleship gray panel
protecting the womb where the waste is crushed.

This speaks well of my city –
removing the rust belt that trapped it
inside grungy jeans covered with coal dust.
The city can now put on a nice pair of chinos
and reasonably hope the beige stays clean.

The trucks glide to a tuneful stop
and the refuse managers emerge from the cranium
in crisp clean battleship gray uniforms.
They tenderly lift the comatose
larva-like addicts and homeless
and gently place them in the womb.

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James W. Reynolds lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. His work has previously been published in Blue Lake Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Defenestration, Ariel Chart, Lighten Up Online, Parody, The Broadkill Review, The Loch Raven Review, and The Oddville Press.