The bins appear on Wednesday night
For collection in the morning
We oldies are a predictable sight
You’ll never catch us dawdling
Our bins are lined up in a row
Green or blue or brown
And grey sometimes for general stuff
They all will take their turn
Glass goes too a box we have
You can often see inside her
What kind of life the neighbours have
Wine or beer or cider
The men work hard who do that job
Disposal of our garbage
Long and tedious I suspect
So many jobs are savage
My father’s work I never saw
Deep down there, in the pit
Hard and hot and dusty work
Full of grime and grit
So many jobs are unseen work
Poor pay and little prospect
But the folk who do them deserve at least
The honour of respect
Public service of whatever kind
We call the common good
And without that good we are high and dry
We haven’t left the wood
Brian Fahy
16 June 2021
Erris Poetry 