the street cleaner can love their job for a while

Alyssa Moore

It was my third year in the position, and there

were some things I despised, some things I

yearned for, but all things I endured. My job

consisted mainly of selectively extracting

the dead flower petals from the post-midnight

street detritus and compacting them into a fine-

smelling soot using only the tips of my index

and thumb. I had an inkling it was all bullshit,

the sort of extraneous task assigned when what

exactly to do with a willing body is not known,

but now and again I saw a glimmer of appreciation

from the observers, and so I continued my diligent work.

Eventually, two things put me in the opinion that I

should abandon this labor. For one, the faces of the

people producing the dead flower petals had

begun to show. I found myself equal parts familiar

with and repulsed by these faces, though it

was really their earnest planting of lifeless stems

and the equally frantic uprooting and scattering as they

realized that the flowers would not flourish

that did me in. Additionally, I did come across a rather

forward advertisement demanding an immediate

rebellion of the street cleaners. Under the compulsion

of my post, I ripped it down but impulsively

placed it in my pocket. Initially, I was pleased

by how able I was to take the battered paper

in stride, continuing along my route without

much interest in its message. But that night

I crushed the petals inadequately, producing

perhaps the foulest stuff I’d ever turned in

to my supervisor. Under the influence of these

happenstances a gentle yet incessant rumbling

was born within me, which when I was left

alone escaped my body in impatient

snarls that obfuscated all else. This new rumbling

hindered my street cleaning abilities considerably,

and my investment in how pleasant the streets

smelled plummeted in kind. In response to

these changes, the same faces,

now blatant in their appraisal of me, did adopt

a most knowing and judgmental pall, though

they did not stop their planting and scattering.

It was at this point that I put in my two weeks’

notice and also when a windfall of money

to the city resulted in the deployment

of automated industrial compacters, whereby my post

was terminated and my notice deemed void.

Alyssa Moore is the author of WET MEDIA. She was the inaugural winner of Poetry magazine’s Prize for Visual Poetry. She is an editor for Ghost Proposal, a journal for intermedia writing.
TAGS
Poetry
Originally published:
April 2, 2025

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