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60 In Love with the Garbage Men Wednesday morning comes with its early blue corners and the smell of hot cotton under the steam iron. Restless, the garbage men prowl their half-lit houses, not wanting to crease their fresh shirts while the coffee drips. They have named their trucks that gleam as the streetlights go out and the sun just brushes the tops of the tree-lined streets. Dogs grumble sleepy greetings. Everyone else sprawls mute in their beds. Even alarm clocks on the bedside tables hold their tongues a little longer. The strong and silent type, garbage men cross through the town, taking the things we have no use for, giving us all a clean slate. There’s something tender in the way they put the lids back on, placing the cans in neat ranks beside the shadowy driveways. 61 Priests of the ephemeral, they forgive our excesses, remove broken toys, shattered wine glasses, and the pictures of lovers who left us. They absolve us with the hushed clank and rumble of tires moving down the now gently awakening street. ...

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