The bin men parade down our street
all purpose and speed.
Rolling before them a thunder of work.
Of bins and trays and discarded things
their noise punctuating this slow morning.
And every week the clock-work of waste,
of renewal through removal
by these early day storm troopers
advances and moves to another front.
Still fast and hot. Dull-eyed but
eager to finish an infinite job
and park their oozing lorries
out of sight
lest the war be lost.
And when they’ve gone the gimlet eyed residents
let in the clean and calm,
scuttling out to retrieve their empties
and return to an order
only they can comprehend
as they claim peace
in the recently returned