There he is again: Local
Joe, Can And Bottle Picker,
wound up in scarves and
old parka with patches, gray
shapeless hat like a pudding
on his head, fingerless gloves,
his fingers dark with labor, coming
gingerly down the icy street from
recycle bin to recycle bin seeking
his livelihood as he does each
Wednesday, Thursday if the week
contains a Monday holiday.
I say hello if our paths cross
as I’m taking my stuff to the curb,
let him know if there’s anything in my bins
worth his time, ask if he’s been beaten
to the spoils this week by the Maxima Couple,
so-called because of the late-model Maxima
they drive from bin to bin, the man getting out
at each stop to pick the bin as she waits for him
staring straight ahead and neither
ever talks back when I say hello — not like
Local Joe who’s friendly and non-defensive,
matter of fact, after all this is business, this
industry of walk and pick, walk and pick,
and he never has a bad word to say about 
the Maxima Couple who get me riled up
over what looks like their unwillingness
to defer to those who provide for them,
their choice not to provide me
with the kind words and 
warm feelings I get from Joe
who appears appropriately grateful
at all times; thanks, Joe,
you make my trash day complete,
see you next week.