When the car passes its last gasps where even bacon grease
and a leash won’t motivate my wagon’s wheels to move I sometimes have to
venture TIRElessly out on foot for repairs. Since small smart-phones are not yet
Yeti-friendly and overt stimulation from music or talk-radio overloads my beanie
baby brain, I slog silently with little but the fat on my pratt to keep me company. So it’s no surprise that whenever I
travel trike-less, I choose random roadside refuse to ‘count’ and keep my gnat-sized
noodle from focusing on both the corns on my feet and the ones stuck in my
teeth.
Since counting over ten is not my strong suit I avoid all common
twigs, rocks, and gutted gutter road-kill along my chosen boot route. Instead I
have a knack for tracking trash or other stand-out street-leavings which are
easy to spy with my bloodshot eyes and can dutifully tally fast with or without
an abacus. If I can snag a bag or un-holey rag I will collect the parkway prizes
to shuttle back to our hovel but usually the neighbors complain that our dump already has enough yard art at our
disposal.
In many places that I have lived, soda cans and rum bottles are
ordinarily good ‘objet d’ cART’ for my
way of highway ciphering and, if I am REALLY lucky, an occasional drop of hobo-hydration.
However, local recycling rules near me now put bounties on such items making
them slim-lickins during my current
treks and frequent sole searching.
Too bad I can’t earn some clean cold cash for dirty hot butts since lip-flicked
cigarettes along with their flat-mashed cello packs are probably the most rampant
refuse to cross my tracks and fill my sacks.
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