They Clean The Streets Whilst The People Sleep Poem by Not Long Left

You can smell the rot
long before The robotic
Carrier of rubbish halts
Outside your sleepy home.
Coming in through your window
Is the tired operated groan,
Of the crushing and the mushing
Of the leftover waste,
Your tastebuds never got to taste.

Every Friday they come,
Usually just as the sun
Creeps through the clouds.
Usually I greet them with an akward
Thankful embarrased smile.
Half retching as the rotten bile
Seeps through the black bags.

The forgotten force,
Who no one ever aspires to be,
Yet without these very men,
How could we walk the streets
without drowing in a sea
Of rotting leftover luxury.