Free Newspapers

Free Newspapers

Lie in the gutter

On the grass

Stuffed into letterboxes

Marked ‘no junk mail’

But filled with clutter

Every paper wet and sodden

From the rain

Breaking down into tattered remains

Blocking up the drain

Tradesmen in short trousers

And hi-viz vests wait at kiosks

For takeaway coffee

They have sawdust on their boots

Dandruff in their hair

They smell of heavy lifting

Which is what they do

So that seems fair

The coffee smells good

They would eat in if they could

But there is a contraflow

At the end of the road

Where the refuse truck

And the funeral cars

Jockey for position

In the rain

The coffin needs collecting

The dustbin men won’t come back

This way again

Not until next week

The future for decomposition

Looks bleak

The men in black

Have no sense of irony

They will always take their own good time

To do the heavy lifting

It is in their nature

To work at an even pace

There is a degree of dignity

In a straight face

The refuse truck can wait

Until they have made their own

Sweet way

Through the garden gate

And damn well shut it

The cortege can’t run late

The traffic management official

Will wave them through

The driver is a mate

He likes a flat white

With a double shot

He will have one in the holder

Next to the handbrake

Like as not

He will drink it on the sly

As the mourners’ break down and cry

It is what they do

It is why traffic management

Always waves them through

They all fear that tearful grieving

Will be catching.