Trash Bag Organ Donor

Sitting on the curb, permanently staring down at the damp asphalt, I can see the reflection of the orange streetlight in a puddle.

The corpse of a Christmas tree is resting next to me on its side; the lights, ornaments, star, and tinsel have been put back up the attic in a cardboard box for next year's victim.

My thin black plastic skin is flapping back and forth in the wind. It feels nice.

A raccoon pops out of the shrubs of the house across the street, and makes her way over to where I am sitting. Stomach bulging, she is about to become a mother.

She sniffs my gut, then cautiously paws at it.

It tickles.

I try not to laugh.

The pawing rapidly escalates into clawing, biting, tearing, chewing, obliterating.

My vital organs are strewn across the pavement: cans of tuna fish, pizza crust, moldy swiss cheese, candy bar wrappers, chicken bones with flecks of meat still hanging from them, empty packs of cigarettes, a decapitated action figure, used tissues, and a couple of scratched CD's.

I try not to laugh.

It still tickles.

She sits next to me licking a can of tuna fish with a mostly eaten drumstick in her paw.

The world around me fades to black, like a velvet curtain coming down at the end of a show.

In a couple of hours, two garbage men are going to be pissed.

In a couple of months, her babies are going to be born.

They will all be healthy and strong.

They will always have something to eat, because garbage day is once a week, every week, And the rich people in this development throw away a lot of garbage.

There are three more developments within a mile radius that do the same.

They will all go on to lead prosperous, successful lives, as long as they avoid cars and detection.