I like sorting through the dumpster behind my apartment every night. I inhale possibility and pungency, moldy cheddar cheese, dying pizzas. I examine discarded items with tenderness, even if I must crane my neck. There are boxes for flat screen TVs, crumpled cartons of Bud Light, blue and white arresting my eyes. Old newspapers. Styrofoam and crumpled cardboard. Discarded garbage cans. But there’s also a crumpled joint or two and a couple Michelina’s TV dinners with their soothing green boxes. …