DUMPSTER DIVING
by Super Train Station H

---

Dumpster diving,
neither cunning nor conniving,
the stuff's laying around for free,
and we're just surviving.

One human's garbage
is another creature's fine dining,
there's high quality stuff in here
if you can find it.

Spicy hot chicken,
dumplings with duck sauce,
half-eaten sirloin steak
you can shovel into your maw,
all kinds of delicious treats
you can get your paws on,
find a tub of discarded clam chowder
you can chomp upon.

A night to remember doesn't have to be tragic,
we're sailing First Class on "Queen Mary",
not "Titanic".

Cause we're fancy beasts,
and we're too fancy for Fancy Feast,
so pet food can schlep itself
down some other rube's mouth tube.

The donuts behind the coffee shop at night are extra crispy,
and Italy and China toss food with global history.

Moths orbit the street lights,
while we eat all night,
cause we have carnivore stomachs
that can take rotting food alright.

And when the sun's coming up,
it means the fun for now's almost up,
so we'll stumble home
and huddle in a pile where we can lay up.

Do it tomorrow? Maybe.
We'll play it by our fuzzy ears.

Dumpster diving with friends
is a pleasure
that reigns without peer.

---

Thanks for reading!

This poem could be about cats, dogs, or any stray animal scavenging through human food discards, but I happened to have a gelatin silver print of a raccoon that I took back in college and it seemed appropriate.

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