What strange attachment

What strange attachment

To the random utility

Of workaday sounds

As a backdrop,

Pneumatic drills

Concrete breaking

Used to be a punishment of choice

For the chain-gang foreman

Prisoners rarely cared

For the quality of stone

Backache and blisters

Were the least of their problems

Now it is the jackhammer

Taking the strain

As clouds amble by

The sky a pastel blue

Above the dust bowl

Are the workers

Any better off

Than their indentured counterparts

Fettered by their ties

To the community

Blue-collar houses

Barely adequate a respite

Against the unrelenting heat

Of a midsummer sun

Honeybees rarely bother

To relax

Or drift off the beaten track

Following the same routine

Day after day

Certain in the hesitancy

Of each brief stop

Regardless of the noise

The bustle of humanity

Sporadic bursts of banter

Laughter and profanity

Blown on a gentle breeze

To accompany their flight

There is always music

Blended into and between

Each sharp metallic clang

No smith cast bell

Nor ancient bronze

But foundations were laid today

Even as the old man

Sips cold tea

Through a reusable straw

Wrapped up for a day

Of leisure

Hunched in a wheelchair

On the balcony of his sheltered flat

A blanket, woolly muffler

Oversized hat

Inhospitably clad for the weather

Wheeled out by his paid carer

Left to sit until four

When the next one

Comes to his door

With a smile on her face

As she takes care of business

Wet work is extra

The siren calls an end

The Honeybees have gone

The mosquitoes return

To their bloodlust

And the workers

Down tools for the day

Until they all pitch-up

For a re-run

Tomorrow.