By Marianne Jones
White ghosts of plastic bags
dangle like sighs from the bushes lining the road to the Trout Lake dump.
There, the disgorged contents of homes and camps anticipate their burial: stained mattresses and cracked resin lawn chairs,
a moulded Santa head,
mittened hand raised in greeting beside his flaming cheek,
plastic riding toys, styrofoam chunks.
Undertakers in boots and flannel shirts stand beside pickup trucks,
joking about the weather
as they glance at the mass grave around them.
An abandoned purple dinosaur with courageous smile stitched on
awaits his fate.