morning comes to Armageddon
by scott from jail

I lie in this room typing, juggling notes, staring at the acne-bump ceiling
Not in pain or despair
listening to the not-too-distant grinding machinery of a garbage truck
lifting with large metallic arms

plastic containers of trash with a might swoop
carrying them aloft and overhead,
dumping the refuse into a grissly, grimy stinking space
Many rooms worth

clattering and mashing
I do not know the rhythm of this big machine's day
its turning wheels, its gears, rumbling,
the wind waiting for it to leave the alley

Waiting for it to move on and leave in slience
The dusty gravelled space between neighbors, an alley
I wait for it to leave, but the long tenement of noise and crushing
goes on, some little space of time taken up

By the gasoline engines and debris. Coming at the south by south east
is the glaring shining sun
hitting my eyes as pain-filled annoyance
I shift by head, letting fall my neck in shadow

Dodging the beam of light distracting me from my task
an artistic poem combining both the grinding mashing of trash
and the light of morning
The gears subside suddenly

And a slow scraping of a shovel can be head
A largo of moving noise, an octave lower, peaceful by comparison
A slow and quiet thump thump as if
The engine were a symphony

And the unseen shovelling some sort of rustling coughing audience
A shovel here, randomly, there, randomly
the gears increase, the muffled jerking of its wisdom
a shovel here, there

I lie in bed, waiting for it to leave
but am transfixed by the little sounds
the symphony of life
that passes for a garbage man, a shovel and a chunk glaring of day

The door closes? Is he leaving yet,
a few more gentle notes of going,
all is silent almost
a waiting harmony of time

A different motor now, perhaps a saw, a patient steady thought-through action
I breathe a sigh
the light is nearing my eyes again
I have to get up

And begin the day. Just a few minutes away from this bed is a famous missile
Kennedy's "Ace in the Hole" of the Cuban Missile Crisis
when the world was saved from ending
and I hear now the garbage truck, its whirring filling up the gentle alley...

Copyright © 2013 - scott from jail
Published: 9/12/13   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem