The sign says the black man can cross.
Not with impunity, with the white man
Watching with contempt, even hostility
Each take their time, one strides, the other
Feeling an urge undefined, feeling unsure
What it is he senses within. Danger, hostility
As the soldier at war, the foe unsure,
The hidden enemy within us all
The one that kills without a call
As harmful as the Vulcans fall.
Silent thoughts, silence caught
On a city street or country store.
Pretty simple: folk make money collecting some garbage left out in alleys, like old clothes and pieces of iron. That’s a very old trade: “The Rag & Bone Men”. Today it’s mostly aluminum cans!Thanks for your words Tom! Bin men is something I never heard of but I do find in strange living in a world where we lock up the garbage.
Thanks for your words Tom! Bin men is something I never heard of but I do find in strange living in a world where we lock up the garbage.
Pretty simple: folk make money collecting some garbage left out in alleys, like old clothes and pieces of iron. That’s a very old trade: “The Rag & Bone Men”. Today it’s mostly aluminum cans!
In the ethics of it, mostly the guys pick out aluminum cans and other potential merchandise without tipping out the bin or container. So in that case the community allows that activity.
However, when the “collectors” create a mess, folk respond with bins far more difficult to access!
Much to the distaste of my mother, my Old Man had many Bin Men, and Bin Women friends. He knew them by name and would always stop and speak at length to them about who knows what. He would give them some coins, maybe a sandwich if he was carrying one in his bag, a newspaper, possibly, and always a “see, ya!” As he departed.
He had stories to tell about them as well. Times of trouble, disaster, illness, family breakup, war traumas, bad luck.
He doing this gave me insight into those that seem less fortunate, and possibly some empathy that others might not have.
I’m content to carrying on my fathers tradition. Christine is also less content with carrying on with my mother’s.
There are strange people with strange stories out there, not all of them wearing the badge of honour of a shopping trolley filled with their possessions. We lock up ours to secure us against mysterious foes. Sharing doesn’t come easy for most of us. Giving something to someone who has nothing but the clothes on their back is anathema to most, bar the church, charity, the government, and a few individuals who see the worth in giving.
In each case of giving, its effect is minimal. The Bag Man will continue on his way and so will we. Little changes except we have a little less and he has a bit more.