Seagull Mounds

by Steven J. Serafiani

My hand scrubs hardened pasta sauce from my
jar dinner plate solo, fork solo; as I
stop, look out kitchen window in deep stretch
only a few feet besides headlights beyond treeline
I became startled;
became startled with how ashamed I am with
my loneliness; this intrusive feeling of
being unoccupied by, well, anything
hand half submerged in pot, toward wrist,
soap and onion bits,
mind howled with outside wind rustling siding
what the fuck was the transportation?
younger self, be ashamed
older self, shake your head
you are not Pizzaro
you are Gould.
Strainer now full of solo and the
only thing left to create now;
white bag drawstring tightened snug to
lid open toss then
drag wheeled can down driveway
scrape curb sat for Wednesday morning pick-up where
dirty work gloves fill the machine squeeze that
chugs miles to seagull mounds.