Why Getting Drunk on Sunday Night is a Bad Idea.
Every Monday he comes,
seven am like some tyrannical alarm clock,
the garbage man clamors down my alley
He toils away, an over-zealous drummer
smashing at his metallic tympani
with desperate determination. I can just see him—
his eyebrows damp with sweat, cocked at a disturbing angle
his tongue pinched dogmatically between his lips
never looking up at the conductor to see if
They’re on the same page
Every Monday he comes,
as democratic as a jack-hammer
pounding mercilessly against my ear drums
he probably enjoys it sometimes,
doesn’t care what you did the night before
he’s got a job to do and no cries of mercy
from a sleepless poet will stop him.
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