Denizens Of The Dumpsite Poem by Ferdinand L Quintos

They stand silently on the roadside
like tired zombies staring wide,
but they are not a frightful sight,
they’re denizens of the dumpsite.

Like grave soldiers standing ground,
they wait for the familiar sound,
roar of dump trucks with wastes loaded,
garbage from cities collected.

They ran to the place where they knew
the creaking trucks would spew,
like locusts come from feast of grasses,
their now-nauseating heaviness.

With improvised wire hooks and probes,
they go about in frenzied moves,
bravely rummage hither and thither,
bits of metals, tins, and paper.

When, to them, nothing of value
is left within their range of view,
they sort things out, cram them sacks,
haul them down the dump on their backs.

Not resting, they go right to junkyards
to reap their dirty works’ rewards,
few pesos and maybe some cents
to bring home with the nauseous scents.

Going home they thank God so Good,
now they can buy food for their brood,
rest and wait for the next daylight,
another trip to the dumpsite.

Is not, to them, thanks is also fit,
for, to ponder, weigh all of it,
to GNP they contribute
although some think it’s too minute.

The trash they sell for a pittance
go to the plants a little distance,
feed recycle mills made to purr
by men paid to quell their hunger.

The trash become new goods anew
With looks so attractive to view,
Give more net to men of business,
bring the government more taxes.