The Truck

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.