Public Servants


In the nondescript early morning of an industrial day

Two men, perhaps a father and son,

Pick their path down the motorway verge

Stabbing trash, paper and discarded cups

With pointed sticks; wearing luminous bibs,

Woolly hats and pained expressions.

The father, for he is that in my mind,

Has a ruddy countenance, heavy jowls;

The son, if my theory is right,

Is tall and thin, stretched by circumstance.

Their small talk, like their progress,

Is slow and broken but continuous.

All this I see in seconds as I speed by.

They and their work are separate things

In front of them a day of drudgery

In acidic air tasting sharp and bitter,

While behind them winds a trail of litter.  GUN TRASH

© Alan Combes, 2019. All Rights Reserved

Alan Combes