Tossing away sandwiches,
chewing gum, cigarettes,
he made his heaven from wrappers,
commerce’s carapace. Who would discard
the meat of the thing: shake out
the book and bow to
the empty jacket, feed on
Baggies and shells, expect
twenty-four blue robes to rise
and offer a requiem? Recall, then,
that this temple of trash was made
in a garage: a heavenly vehicle,
we, entering, fuel.
Pamela Murray Winters has had work published in the Gettysburg Review, Gargoyle, Beltway Poetry, and numerous other publications. She received an MFA in poetry from Vermont College in Fine Arts in 2015 and is presently gainfully unemployed. A native of Takoma Park, Maryland, Pam lives by the Chesapeake Bay, hates seafood, and doesn’t swim.