It was a Holy Saturday
and I was at the city dump.
I felt to be in a holding pattern anyway;
somewhere between death and life and death and life.
Good Friday left me filled with sadness and I
was tired after those hymns, those prayers, those tears.

I left the microwave oven.

It was a gift from Mom and Dad
on one of their drives west.

The bowl inside was still filled
to the brim
with spaghetti,
after three days,

I still couldn’t get it out.

I cried before I left Shepard Landfill
and it was about so much more
than the microwave oven.