A Birthday Poem
They slog daily to and through the city’s rotting
quagmire, wearying of barely-tied and bursting
ill-assorted plastic bags full of the summer stink
of an unending simmering detritus – flip-side
of King Midas – everything they handle turns
to goo – but oh! – just at the sight of you,
they straighten up, become two gracious gentlemen,
and cordially make bold (I was with you, so I know)
to crow: “Hello!” They call to your familiar cheerful
being in the memory of having seen, and seeing,
that the bags you’ve hauled out from your
building over months and years have been tied
tight and right – careful, bless’d and whole.
In your presence, even garbage turns to gold.
They slog daily to and through the city’s rotting
quagmire, wearying of barely-tied and bursting
ill-assorted plastic bags full of the summer stink
of an unending simmering detritus – flip-side
of King Midas – everything they handle turns
to goo – but oh! – just at the sight of you,
they straighten up, become two gracious gentlemen,
and cordially make bold (I was with you, so I know)
to crow: “Hello!” They call to your familiar cheerful
being in the memory of having seen, and seeing,
that the bags you’ve hauled out from your
building over months and years have been tied
tight and right – careful, bless’d and whole.
In your presence, even garbage turns to gold.
.
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