The truck stops, smelling inconvenient in the striving street
the weekly run, the regular collect
stock piles of baby puke and waste convenience
and plastic worn deliveries, slit and thrown
away, if there is such a place, a far off land, to hold such affection
to the men, flint, in orange vest and dignity
investiture of the noble and strong
in the tidy streets, the fast lanes, the weaving, heaving perfection.
The truck stops, about time, beside the fancy, flanneled men
and suited chameleon mavens preening, on their way out
while Schubert like they glide, poor Schubert, not like him, scheming
and mock the ties, the suits, the ear pieced gallimaufry
time wasted while the baby pram and the soft morning shoe
mannequin blows the kisses against the perfect morning lawn
while the streets, narrow, wide, in perfect morning hue
oil against the silk screen handmaid leaning into her perfect morning yawn.
The truck again, has been away but lo
the doggy do and baby puke that waits
for it’s timely arrival,
in time, just in time to flog and flag their importance, in their rightful proportions
the Neville’s and Tony’s, not required for this, waltz away, to not Schubert or Proust
or anyone like them, would they be away, where that is
if not for the truck, the one with their slit goods of plastic and overdue arrivals,
and the doggy do, baby puke and the mannequin’s expedient contortions.
The truck, for us, not them, we, us, we pay
and they bring, and they take
the carriage, carrion of mid-weeks burping spill
and what was cast aside, in haste
but well thought out, planned and trolleyed to oblivion,
the car park, the well parked car and boot and back seat rebellion
while the meter runs and the orange vests plan their visit
about time you say, and yet to spring the waste.
The Neville’s and Tony’s arrive at their station
safe knowing, the truck has come and baby safe
that thrown away, where is it again, somewhere away
a place, a time, a prefecture of clean, green, never seen
why how the water cooler love, the perfect suburbia, the plastic now safe,
gone, not here, there, where that is
and the mannequin, ruffled, tidy, spent and licked
to a new place where the truck will never go, has never been.
And then the Truck, rumbling, gathers up the clippings of suburbia,
the noisy necessary nuisance of perfection
no slum here, glum, earnest to a tee
where the chainsaw, blower the winds, quick to blows itself
and the tea cosy, the pot, the straightened hedges and gleaming bench tops
while the orange vests, not caring for what the mannequin requests
if not for her, if not for them, they sidle up and tip
as if the favour, the eternal favour, heaving, shows itself, and stops.
© copyright – Stephen Newman 2019