The Collector of Forgotten Things Poem, by gray0328, at My poetic side

When I was a boy, mornings

opened like secrets. The garbage

truck groaned up the street, its

wheels chewing the silence. I

watched the man with gloves of

rubber lift bag after bag, unseen

worlds spilling from each one. I

thought, what a great job, to

touch what others throw away, to

know their lives in fragments. I

never told anyone. I sat on

the curb, a witness to broken,

heaped things, their weight eloquent,

their unspoken language humming. I

dreamed of the truck, its descent

into alleys unnamed, the clatter

a song I might carry. But

the years did not unfold like

a road to that truck. I

became a poet, a different collector,

bending to scraps of silence, to

words tossed, left behind. I

found the same weight in them,

the same hum, the same bright

shard of another’s life glowing.

Some mornings, it feels enough.

Comments +

Friendship February 4th, 2026 11:18
Well written. Your poem revolves around the notion of collecting and appreciating the overlooked fragments of life. The poet reflects on their childhood fascination with the garbage truck and its operator, who engages with discarded items, representing the hidden stories and lives of people.
sorenbarrett February 4th, 2026 11:20
Gray this is a wonderful metaphor gathered so meticulously and collected into what is woven into a poem. A fave

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