with a weird smell,
something like vanilla cheese.
I walk through it grimacing,
while holding the bag.
passing the doctor offices,
the insurance frauds,
the fronts for weed smugglers.
I say hi to Liz, the cute lady from Jersey,
holding my breath.
these corridors lead me
somewhere, with bag in hand,
out a back door where
the big hard sun hits my eyes
like light leaving night.
under bees and cigarettes,
I hurl the bag into the air.
it soars in a high arching graceful fall,
and lands just shy of the dumpster,
breaking open and spilling coffee garbage everywhere.
I debate for a solid minute
whether to clean it up or leave it.
Even though Karma doesn't exist,
I clean up the grossness.
Then I go back and wash my hands.