The third garbage poem, Peel

Peel

Thaw.  Melt.
Dirty left behind things emerge from the drifts.
Roadside grime and gritty.
Once this peel was alive, held fruit.
So black it is recognizable only by shape.
The season of rot has arrived.

Last summer I came to this stretch of road.
Blacktop dizzyingly motionless
Grit ground through the pedal stroke.
Dusk seeped purple through the trees.
Came cool and humid.
Suddenly cold, blubber legs shuddered.
Bicycle and I moved like two mystics joined.
Breath, rotation.
We got so slow, my wheels laid down in the dirt and cried.

And what happens when there’s no going on?
Used up and drained out
Who’s to say a husk didn’t fall from my shoulders?
Unwrap its salty self from my ribs
And flutter
For a moment before nestling down in the grass
And waiting for winter.