Orderliness
I don’t do it ‘cuz
I’m nice.
I do it ‘cuz I fret.
I worry
my town
will go to pot.
So I put on
blue nitrile gloves
and tear off
two large garbage
bags and
pick up trash
in the streets.
Broken glass,
cigarette boxes,
used masks,
candy
wrappers…
I pick it all up.
As I’m picking up,
I’m raging inside:
“Gross! How can
people do this?
So inconsiderate!
Why is it up to me
to pick up their
crap?”
(because I can’t
stand it).
My therapist
calls it a
noble action.
But I feel
disgusting.
Maybe if
my mother
hadn’t been
traumatized;
maybe if
the holocaust
hadn’t happened;
maybe if
I had known
where I
came from…
I wouldn’t
have to pick
anything up.
But bad things
happen.
(They happened
to us.)
I need to be
prepared.
I knew a
bad thing
had happened
back then—
I just didn’t know
what.
But I felt it:
the loss,
confusion,
disorder.
And so I clean
the streets now,
over and over,
until,
as my
therapist says,
I find
orderliness
in my mind.
