Author’s note: Rhyme scheme for poem is ABCDABCD and later AABBCC.


Why did America get rid of all those jobs


Men with sticks poking trash?


Trash is now called litter,


And the public gets blamed for a norm;


It's all become a battle of the snobs


Perhaps a guilt trip over so much cash;


It all tends to make me bitter,


And it's history's slowest storm;


In France the jobs still exist;


In Paris I was cleaning out a fountain;


An hour later I did a double jerk:


It was piled high with garbage once more;


No one else got p*ssed


(Over here, the molehill is a mountain.)


Litter guarantees people work;


Would that things were as before;


The politics of trash is rather glummer


Here in already dreadful states,


And I without fanfare continue cleaning


Up the countryside we label Apalach;


It'll only get worse in the summer;


Could the city hire people, change their fates?


I’d prefer it to all this bourgeois beaning


Where every proposal comes with a catch;


Endless mutters


Concerning gutters,


Anger linger


Pointing fingers,


If only cash


Came out of trash,


Instead we accuse


But ‘Quis ut Deus?’*


Meanwhile, St. Michael,


We still don’t recycle…


*’Who is like God?* appears on the shield of St. Michael, the prince among angels, who, as with other tasks, visits us at the hour of death, and that death can be that of a city -- a city brimming with apathy and finger pointing, the busy-work that avoids the real work, the maturity required, the nobility of the rich and the poor to give a dang for our future.