Trash In The Street

There’s a metal plate of unknown origin spinning like a coin in the street.   
Its faces never meet the ground because a transcriptionist sees it from her patio and rushes out to keep the roads clear of anything that could get in somebody’s way.  
 
She holds it loosely, by the rim, between her palms to avoid touching the hotter parts and turns back to face her front yard and her dog. A part of her wonders what would happen if she frisbee’d the plate toward him. Would he catch it with jaws and bring it back? 
 
Would the flesh of his lips melt from the sun baked contact, or would the salivation from the jolt provide a barrier? She drops the silver disc into the plastic bin on her curb among the rotted pumpkins, pizza boxes, and empty containers. She lights a cigarette and kills it with six deep hits that turn her eyes red and make her temples pulse. 
 
Feeling satisfied, she goes inside and falls asleep on the dark red couch. She dreams vividly like she has her whole life, and tonight she sees the cosmos spinning like the trash in the street. Just this wad of dust in circular motion. The middle of everything. She prayed like a nun nothing noticed.

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