Days come tumbling one over the other
In silent succession
Talking to me in familiar gestures—
Now the municipal garbage gatherer
Emptying the bin of yesterday’s waste,
Then the stout unsmiling milk vending dame
Carrying light her kettle and measure,
The newspaper boy flinging the day's fare
With the same precision over the gate,
The twin-jingle of his bycycle bell
Vanishing round the corner of the street...
I listen to the cadence of each note
As though learning by heart
The jingle of an old rhyme.
*****
A contest entry
- Eternal Return (prewrites welcome) by Danna Hobart.
400 points, ended January 20, 12 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Yes, I hear the daily jingle of your lines - a wonderful take on the prompt! I just set the garbage out this still dark and snowy morning and will lie in bed again to await the flash of the truck lights on the wall outside my window.
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Beautiful, the way you echo it.
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This is an interesting take on the prompt. Gives me something to ponder. Thank you for entering my contest.
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