That summer night when the power went out,

we lit candles and opened the windows

and then there was no difference

between our rooms and the night.

We went in and out and the darkness

hid our dirt-kissed heels, the starry serenade

of crickets drifting through the screen.

For a time there were no clocks, no ceiling fans

telling us it was bedtime, so we wrote stories

in ink on candlelit paper and ran through dewgrass

hoping the men with their trucks and ladders

would forget everything they knew about science.

Tonight, just before bed,

I walk the thick plastic trash cans

to the road, their lugging wheels

low thunder on the concrete driveway.

I leave them on the edge of the road

where, under the clear night sky,

they can chat with the other cans on the street

about the latest developments—the sleek new TV box,

the soggy dinner leftovers, the grass-stained shoes,

the old garden shears freckled with rust,

a loose-skinned cat tree, grease-darkened

pizza boxes, the small grocery bag bundle

from the bathroom trashcan and the results

inside, the small bassinet box

bulging with disassembled pieces.