Lowpoints in LaySalle

By: Steve Pulaski

At the store today,
I overheard a local refer
to the area as “LaySalle-Peru.”
I guess that’s what happens when
you live somewhere a while.
You pronounce it uniquely to
show you belong.

Meanwhile, I had a shit day.
I bought something I didn’t need
and threw the receipt in my
back-alley dumpster.
I tried to fetch the receipt from the
dumpster, but in my efforts, I wound
up pulling the dumpster forward.
The thing came down on my leg,
baptizing me in filthy, shitty brown water.

I was pinned for a good 30 seconds, 
soaked to the marrow.
I couldn’t extract my leg and the pain was
as awful as the smell.

I finally wiggled my shoe off and
snaked my leg out from under the green monster.
I was in agony, but whatever
pride I had hurt worse.

I went upstairs to my apartment.
I threw my clothes away, showered,
and got my act together for work.
My leg throbbed all day. It finally
quit swelling when it got the size of
a baseball. 

When I got home, the dumpster
was upright. The garbage was still all over.
Pop cans, Ramen cups, beer bottles, TV
dinners, water bottles. All mine.

I left my mark.

The next day was spent in bed, for the most part.
I called off work. I couldn’t move.
My leg was the color of a Carolina Panthers jersey.
I felt like I had been in a car accident.
I still mourned for my shoe, my leg, and my pride.

Never did get that refund either.