Recycling

There we were
In the grey drizzle
Of an early afternoon
In December

Unloading
Our emptied and used
Into overflowing dumpsters and bins

The soles of our shoes
Adhering to the mud.

He was an old timer
Moving slowly
Slightly bent
Wheezing
Lifting small
Neatly wrapped parcels
From the back of his pick-up.

His red and black plaid wool coat
Bundled up around him
Under a brown leather hat
Darkening from the wet.

I jumped out of my car
Grabbing one of the bags
That I brought
And with my free hand
Picked up one of the
Butcher-tied bundles
Of newspapers
From the back of his truck
And said

“Hi.”

I returned from dumping those
And grabbed two more handfuls
Out of the rear of his truck
As he watched me.

“Young folks don’t even know what these are!”
I told him.

“My daughter doesn’t even know what a newspaper looks like.”

He looked at me.

“How the hell do you think they separate all of this stuff?”
He asked.

“I have no idea.”
I responded.

“It’s amazing to me.”
He continued.

“It’s awesome that you’re out here recycling!”

I returned to grab some more.

He read a lot of newspapers.

A dying art.

“Looks like we’re going to get rain today at some point.”
He obliged.

“It happens.”
I told him.

I emptied out the back of his truck
And then I emptied mine
All the while talking to him
In the wet
Doleful
Afternoon.

He watched me
Smiling.

He could’ve left
But he stayed for the attention.

I finished and shook his hand.

“You be sure to have yourself a nice day, rain or not.”
I told him.

“Thank you. I mean that.”
He said.

“It’s nothing at all. Nice meeting you.”
I replied.

I watched him amble up into his truck
Through my rear-view mirror.

Moments later
I was driving over the bridge
Crossing the river
Slowly
In second gear

Swallowed whole
By one of the most engagingly
Haunting fogbanks
That I have ever
Witnessed

And disappeared.