Every Broken Thing

Saturday Morning, Salina
The Poetry Of Lance McKnight
  
Saturday Morning, Salina

                               
   “These idiots pay more for the broken
   shit,” she slyly exalts - pleased to
   sell her garbage and elated it is
   now destined to rest in someone
   else’s pile. She reveals her

   secrets, like I’m some lover
   destined never to squeal and
   the furthest thing from an informant
   or spy. She is wrong, I note -
   wedging surreptitiously into my trunk

   this treasured purchase, unknown to her
   the value. And, unlike a thief, I slowly putter
   away in full daylight. The heat is stifling,
   humidity burdensome and the smell
   the river wafts our way is, at times,

   overpowering - a winter’s worth
   of decomposition, now a rotting odor
   hanging heavy in this stagnant air
   until the rains appear and wash it farther away.