Trash Heap

I am a guardian of rubbish. In my white tracksuit, I cycle alone along the streets of Amsterdam and collect the trash that litters this city. With my cargo bicycle full of garbage, I wave at passing nightwalkers that fill the pockets of silence. They pause mid-stride for too long under dim street lights without responding. Why do they wait for me to ride past them? I catch a glimpse of their shadows darting into the darkness over my accumulating junk pile that continues to grow. Now I am unsure if those creepers were ever there at all.

It is my duty to keep these streets clean. A pungent smell persistently follows me around town, keeping me company. I know someone is supposed to take over my shift soon because leachate has saturated my clothes. I make my way to the designated spot by the shuttered flower shop and look up at the stars, waiting. After a time, the air becomes too thin to breathe in. My skin feels tight and rubbery. Whooshing sounds of the ocean start to choke my ears. It isn’t long before I collapse onto the sidewalk. That is when my replacement shows up in his white tracksuit, ready to pick me up and toss me into his two-wheeler.