flitter in and out of ditches
lined with stands of broken
stalks and matted grasses
looking for trash; the usuals are
in good supply:
empty bottles
of Budweiser and Southern Comfort,
crushed Marlboro packets and countless
cigarette butts.
We talk about latest novels, sisters,
getting dropped on a “B” ride,
until we realize Sharon has fallen behind,
like a dog does when he has found a
particularly tasty morsel where even
a stern call from his master will not
pull him away.
She came towards us holding her
treasure, a small jawbone with teeth
still intact.
We dutifully admired it and got back to our
chatting; Jim’s bad back, Jamie Oliver’s
new weekly show and where to buy
good quality meat.
I always find friendship in those ditches
amongst the dead bones and
cigarette butts.
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