Neighborhood in the Suburbs

Take our garbage cans, a man may be known
by what he throws away, a woman too.
The trash collects in bags and cans and waits
on the curb and the garbage smell almost hides
the smell of fear, of hate and despair,
of broken promises, stale toast of old quarrels.
If God were the garbageman— or the Devil—
these witnesses for judgment might speak too plainly
for His mercy to droppeth as a gentle dew,
or keep the bonfires of exposure from burning.
What shall we say of the cancelled checks
with forged signatures by the son in college,
the wrapping from a dress shoplifted at the
department store, long distance phone bills
to a lady of leisure in our convention city,
whiskey bottles from a childless couple,
whiskey bottles from a family of twelve,
a foetus wrapped in a towel where a daughter
is ill, decayed dressings from an old wound
where the miracle did not occur, pages from a
hymn book, ‘‘Rock of Ages’’ around a poison bottle,
a love letter marked shit in angry strokes?
We shall say nothing, the neighborhood knows
how to keep its secrets, we all know
the neighborhood mind and speak the
neighborhood tongue, we keep the order
that defends our ways— the rich have estates
and the poor have alleys but we own front doors
and the keys that lock them.