The Dustman
by Mich & Eva
I've bin around for many years.
Long enough to remember
when one bin was enough.
A round galvanised bin
stood on its square of concrete,
between the washroom and the coal-place,
behind the house,
behind the gate.
It took everything.
Scraps from the kitchen,
paper from the fire,
dust and ash
from yesterday's coal.
Though even the ashes
weren't always finished.
Some banked the fire
through a winter's night.
Some found another use.
What was left
waited for the dustman.
And he came.
Not to the pavement.
Not to five coloured lids
waiting in a row.
He came through the gate.
I remember something
across his shoulder —
a pad, a folded sack perhaps —
between the man
and the weight of our lives.
He lifted that great metal bin
onto his shoulder
and carried it away.
No hydraulic arms.
No wheels beneath it.
The dustman
had the shoulders then.
And afterwards
he brought our bin back.
Perhaps a word with Mum.
A morning greeting.
Nothing important enough
for anyone to remember.
Except I do.
Then he went on
to the next house,
the next bin,
the next gate
on his round.
And he closed ours
behind him.
Years passed.
The coal-place emptied.
The fires went cold.
The old galvanised bin disappeared.
One became two,
then three,
then four.
Now five bins wait outside.
Each has its purpose.
Each has its destination.
And perhaps
that is progress.
I've bin around
for quite a number of years.
Long enough to know
that things disappear
without our noticing
the last time we saw them.
The coal fire.
The old bin.
The dustman
with the world upon his shoulder.
Mum at the door.
And sometimes I wonder
whether they're really gone,
or whether somewhere
behind all those years
the old bin still stands
on its square of concrete,
the dustman has just said goodbye,
and someone
has closed the gate.