It’s winter, and people are putting their bins out early.
The plastic wheels make their suburban trundle predictable—
as the car of an unwanted guest pulling into our driveway—
though, as I walk Pip past, it’s my ears that prick, aghast.
Al-lah! once my neighbourhood sound was the musical tring
of rickshaw bells; the sabjiwalah matching the crows in his call-out
of pyaj, pyaj—high-pitched, humorous, knowing that the
misti-fed thighs of middle-class ladies would not deign to throbble
from the heights of their flats, but the bag of bones servant would be sent down to haggle.
The wheelie bin is, likewise, an outrage. It should be put to sleep.
The method of the madness—trundling them out for collection, trundling them back in—
all the with pretence that we are not sheep led by the council garbologists.
Shouldn’t we rebel? Lay down all our rubbish on the TV room floor
and get some hipster photographer to snap us swimming through it?
Should we not intone: ‘I deny bin night! I deny bin night!’ and stamp
mud on the tricolor (blue, yellow, green) and instead, eat our garbage?
The trundling will continue in the morrow
when, thankfully, I am asleep
with putty in my ears
to dampen the noises blowing in from the West.