I'll try some new ones.
On work, you remember the garbage can school of art.
I've written a garbage can poem, and I'll see how it works.
It's called "On Work."
The smell and diamond morning was a restaurant cleaning up.
Two men carry the container full of slops
to a commercial garbage truck and drove the night time pairs
away once appetites had made the day.
Portage of day from night to night,
I had hoped to sit in the staring sun at bitter ease.
Cool in the pairs of will, and also
wonder how to be not part of it.
The cottage slops and increments of day.
Who is to eat with such an attitude?
Ruin the world with claims, porters and their freights form
in the eight, so I must carry three pieces of paper
and a ballpoint pen from one desk to another for a profit
while there is still profit under the sun.