Purging the Bins

PURGING THE BINS:

The men came for them in the early hours.
Seized them, roughly; hauled them, brutally,
to the truck.

Metal clamps descended, ruthlessly,
lifting them, spinning them, hanging them,
suspended, head-down.

Their innards slithered, rushed, tumbled
out; disgorged their inner muck.

They were yanked upright, marched back.
Left, still shaking; empty, hollow shells
of their former selves.

He lay, in his bed, nearby;
heard the anguished, clanging din.
And he wished for an angel of purgation,
to come and do the same for him.

He wished for an angel of purgation,
to come, with the morning light.
Ease away his tossing and turning;
bring closure to the endless night.

He wished for an angel of purgation,
to come and strip his soul of sin.
To purge his corpulent body,
so it might, once again, become thin.

He wished, most of all, for the angel
to inflict him with well-deserved pain.
Scour him clean of his faults, his vices;
to start life all over again.

 

This is a poem that springs directly from a recent episode in my life.  It was during a period when I was having problems getting to sleep at night.  Fellow-sufferers of insomnia will know all too well the feeling of despair that grows as the early hours pass by, and daylight starts to seep into the bedroom.  Just as I felt I was finally slipping into blissful unconsciousness, I was jolted awake by the sounds of the dustbin-collection, right outside my bedroom window.  As I lay there, silently cursing the innocent bin-men, the ideas for “Purging the Bins” began to take shape.  Although I’d had a sleepless night, at least I got a poem out of it!

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