Tossing away sandwiches,

chewing gum, cigarettes,

he made his heaven from wrappers,

commerce’s carapace. Who would discard

the meat of the thing: shake out

the book and bow to

the empty jacket, feed on

Baggies and shells, expect

twenty-four blue robes to rise

and offer a requiem? Recall, then,

that this temple of trash was made

in a garage: a heavenly vehicle,

we, entering, fuel.

Pamela Murray Winters has had work published in the Gettysburg Review, Gargoyle, Beltway Poetry, and numerous other publications. She received an MFA in poetry from Vermont College in Fine Arts in 2015 and is presently gainfully unemployed. A native of Takoma Park, Maryland, Pam lives by the Chesapeake Bay, hates seafood, and doesn’t swim.