Six Fifteen Rumble

At six fifteen, the rumble starts,

a Tuesday thing, without a doubt.

It shakes the walls, it tears apart

what fragile sleep I'd cobbled out.

The truck's low growl, a steady beat,

then glass on metal, hard and keen.

A sound of bins dragged down the street,

a clumsy, loud, unwanted scene.

I pull the pillow close, and sigh.

The week begins, this jarring way.

Each Tuesday morning, low and high,

the roar insists upon the day.

It never varies, never skips.

Just starts, and stutters, and then drips

away.