Trash talk
By Liz Felton
Night still dominates the skies,
As I raise my tired eyes, searching for the reminder of the whats and the whys.
The baby's cries still haunt my ears,
She's the reason I'm here.
Number four on the way, I don't seem to have learnt my lesson all these years.
Tunes on in the truck, banter for breakfast.
I know at times we might seem reckless,
But these bin men are my wingmen,
And they help me forget.
You see me but choose not to.
What is it you worry I'll do?
Hold you up, get in your way?
Or I'll skip you much to your dismay.
(If I do I'm not disputing my pay,
I didn't have one too many at Lee's birthday,
More likely it's that broken glass in your box today.)
So give me a break,
I'm doing my best.
(Man I don't find it easy to get stuff off my chest.)
They call me garbageman, trashman or refuse collector.
And we don't need no lie detector,
To discover I work in the least desirable sector.
Don't get me wrong I'd love to be some kind of managing director,
But right now I find myself as a ‘sanitary protector’.
And where would you be without us?
The pileup countless, the outrage doubtless,
But still you choose to judge us.
Just for a moment, imagine a world without us key workers.
No one to investigate the first degree murders.
No one to sell you your supermarket cheese burgers.
Big things and small things that you would miss.
Would a 'Key Work Spielberg' be taking the piss?
Close Encounters of the PPE!
A costume adorned not so easily,
On the frontline sweating ceaselessly,
Teaching classrooms breathlessly,
Cleaning supermarkets fearlessly.
Yes, heroes of 2020 come a plenty.
Without musicians and actors, sure our lives would be empty.
But without key workers it could be said,
That more of us would in fact be dead.
The truck breaks, my heart aches,
As I see how the boss shakes with the weight of the world on his shoulder and in this bin.
How can I make sure I don't end up like him?
Lee turns down the beat, looks down at his feet,
Remembering the harassed mother of twins down the street.
Gary gracefully sorts the jumbled recycling of number 10,
The old guy who lives there mixed it up again.
And I look up at the skies now ready to waken,
Stained with the dawn like some sort of streaky bacon.
And I notice these colours reflected below,
In the chalk markings of children.
I catch my breath as I realise,
This ‘thank you’ is for meant for me.
And for once I feel like I have been seen.
Written Word ‘Hand’ poems