It was a cool night. I walked out into the garage. I hefted the bag of dirty diapers and put them inside the back of the fence. I threw the last of our scrap wood into the trash can, and left the lid off, awaiting the bag Julie was filling with cat excrement. I picked up the recycling and walked down to the curb, placing it next to the trash can. I looked up the drive way. There stood our trash can, awaiting Punky pooh. I looked back at the trash can at the curb. I opened the lid to confirm. It wasn’t out trash. I walked back up and brought Julie out. She looked at the trash can at the curb. Looked back to the trash can silhouetted at the edge of our garage. Illuminated like a modern day religious icon. She sat stunned. I sat stunned. After a bit of discussion, we noticed that our neighbors didn’t have their garbage can out. We pushed the can over to their side of the street, pushed down our cart, and closed the garage. Who knows if that was their garbage can, or if it is the rolling dutchman, moved from house to house, old trash looking for a home to reside in front of so that it can be picked up, stopping, but never for long. Rolling ever onward. Its owner forever searching amidst rows and rows of identical receptacles. Cursing that they did not right down their can’s serial number. Oh yes, your can has a serial number. Look and see.