9 January 2008
The cutting council men, in alien attire
bright long ruby shirt, Wellington boot of an ill-yellow
just like a club’s fifth fifteen, to play a grass hacking game
about mid morning, hat, mouth cloth, goggles to protect
taking the long pole with rotating blade cutting
the stinking petrol engine on their back, whining
whacking the brink of the lane, wandering extra hedge
walking by peering into the lane monsoon guttering
the blade in infinity rotating, without remuneration
one now raking the chopped mishmash of jumble hack
broken chaos, collating, without intolerance
the flotsam, jetsam tumble in concert to composting cake
an Imperial storm trooper, but a poor man’s new recruit
wrapped up against the chip of twig, glass, tin
coming here, going there, in a broken unhealthy jalopy
to sweat out in the heat; then total silence when they finish
I watch a scratching sweating way to make rough money
clearing overgrowth, making the place clean, trim
me, with fresh water, fan breeze keeping comfort in touch;
but for a third world indigent crew; they get how much…
