Whatever happened to Rusty Holderbaum?

A TIN CAN

in the center of Maple Avenue
in the center of Takoma Park
in the center of the universe

half a fake phone
sufficient for talks with Rusty Holderbaum
in the house across the driveway

the password to freedom
from the hiding place behind the Porters’ pool
with a run, a kick

the mortal shell
of the soul
of Chef Boy-ar-dee

someday to be deemed
recyclable
and sit at the curb

for the men in gray
to take away

to be sent out again
as this charm around my neck