"Drafted in the Static"-----

Morning leaks into the alley,
Two garbage men rolling the city awake.
The bins clatter—metal nerves, metal breath—
And the sky flickers like it forgot how to stay on.
“Bad day,” one mutters,
But the words fold, break,
Fall apart before they land.
A notice hangs above the landfill,
Paper trembling in the wind:
Draft. Report. No choice.
They stare at it,
Hoping the letters might shift,
Rearrange into something kinder.
They don’t.
The truck idles—low, dying, stubborn.
The world jumps sideways,
A sudden click in reality:
Workers → soldiers,
Trash → orders,
Routine → fate.
One laughs, sharp as tin.
The other curses, softer.
Both climb back into the cab,
Driving toward whatever the next version of the day becomes.

Couple a garbage men in the big city are having a worse day as they have recently learned they have been drafted

in the US Army.