A rubbish collector

A rubbish collector talks to tiny mid-air voices,
bacteria are whispering to him, spiritual man
that he is, and viruses in a chorus sing to his
malady, the ills of advertised and marketed

society tumble in, as he sweeps the streets,
young, unfettered, and unafraid. He whistles,
unknowingly the reincarnation of Momo’s
sweeper. Today, he listens to rumbles of the

Ruminococcus, and feels cozy with this
planet’s new Faecalibacterium; then he pauses,
Rosarito! He lets one rip. It is Odoribacter,
gentle fart halo in the morning air. Happy.

Life is good if you are a planetary rubbish-man,
as passers-by think of him, cosmically himself
a by-product of artificial society, a lesser being
scrounging the leftovers of arch-consumerism.