The Madonnas of the Plastic Bags

The Madonnas of the Plastic Bags
Christopher Bogart

their barreled bodies poured into
stretch slacks of pink and black,
their backs hunched in repeated stoopings,
they climb out the back of a black pickup truck,
silently as to not disturb the clientele
sipping frapaccino on the curb.

Their thick brown fingers clutch empty black bags,
their plastic shining dull images of pain,
left to wane in the fading light.

They reach their aching arms up to the air
as would a chubby child
gesticulating the fate how high
to pull full bags, bags
stuffed to overflow with the detritus of the upper middle class day,
of circulars and shopping bags from high-end stores,
of plastic water bottles and cardboard cups
escheoned with the green Starbuck’s logo,
of crumpled paper napkins and transparent straws.

They lift the bags high, the elevation of the host of refuse
now slid out from their circular wrought iron containers,
now carried carefully to the truck,
now slung over the gate and into the back of its flat bed,
destined to be dumped, emptied at a date and time
unknown to all but the continued monotony of the act,
repeated in a laborious litany of container after container,
store after high-end store,
again and again and again.

And when their day is finally done,
these middle aged madonnas crawl
into their flat bed
and pray
for rain tomorrow.