Tuesday's Grinding Song

The groan and shudder, far too soon,

a metal beast beneath the moon.

Then a clang, a scraping sound,

as bins are lifted from the ground.

It's always Tuesday, this grinding tune,

just before the light of noon.

Or rather, just before the sun

decides the sleepy day's begun.

The brakes, a squeal, a heavy sigh,

then slowly, slowly, rolling by.

This ritual, year after year,

a noisy, dull, specific fear

of waking up to work, to do.

Tuesday. Just the same as new.