Fishing Hole

fishing for cans and bottles in a
trash can by the door of the mini mart.
The trash can, green with small
black wheels in the back, brims
with paper bags and Styrofoam
cups, flyers and broken down cardboard
boxes, cigarette packs and the hope for
a couple dimes worth of glass or plastic.
Fishing for hope, his hand comes across lotto
scratch offs, played and thrown away—.
He sits on the concrete lump that
keeps cars from coming too close to
the wall, and looks through the three
cards, crumpled by another’s disappointment—
looks through their metallic sheens,
their promises of green and red—
promises already proved lies.
He leans back against the trash
can, upsetting one of his bags of bottles:
today’s catch.
His tan coat is tattered from elbows to
cuffs, its white stuffing hanging slack
out of the tears around his wrist as he
peers at the figures and numerals and
proves the promises lies to himself before
replacing them in the Rubbermaid green
trash can, gathering his bags and walking
to the next fishing hole.