of the knackered washers stacked like Lego
in a tower they're building still as they rattle off trailers
and out van backs. The car park's chocker. It's a perfect
day to unpack all that crap that's been clogging
the wash house and backyard for weeks. People are smiling
as they rush to the barriers and sling their household waste
over the fence and onto the growing sea of plastic bags
several feet down. I lend a hand to a woman with a lampstand,
eager to be part of it. It's a day-trip. there must be stuff here
stretches back twenty year or so and some just come
to trudge the dusty labyrinths of electricals, to scour the bags
for those family heirlooms that disappeared up hoover pipes
donkey's since, or salvage what can be got from fridges
with fucked motors gently going to rust. And then there's the men
who shunt and pile and sweep the site, who, today,
have peeled themselves down to their reflective waistcoats
to make the most of the hot day's sun before the refuse sweats
and that sweet, repulsive smell hits and spoils.
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