It's annual trash week. The neighborhood is transformed for a few days, the streets lined with everything people are happy to forget. The look of it: Bombed? Razed? Flooded? Condemned? Bosnia? Katrina? Beirut? Guangdong? And then it's all gone and the next neighborhood a few blocks over gets its turn.

As long as the piles are present, the parade of poachers: one rusty pickup truck after another cruising slowly through the streets, on the watchout for anything worth scavenging.

And me.
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