The pickup’s camper shell strains the rope
tied across it from fender to fender
to hold the bulging contents to the bed.
Newspapers threaten to spread pages
like giant phoenix wings emerging
from egg shell flung aside.
The front seat packed for the driver only
in form-fitting newspapers, fast-food cups and napkins
lets the old man owner escape beside
the grove of newspaper stands
carefully checking his pockets
of tissues, napkins, store receipts
for metal quarters, dimes, nickels.
The urge to throw litter beside the truck
to see him snatch it like a pack rat
with a prize scurrying to his nest
overwhelms me enough to check my pockets.