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Not even the stable boy expects a return for his work.
He shovels manure
in the horse stables three times a day.
That’s it.
Nothing glamorous.
He bends over the piles and sees what the rest of the world
misses—flies racing laps around the rotting Everests,
Flowers birthed unharmed—shining with their yellows and reds
Screws, scrap metal, bits of fallen license plates
sticking out, glistening in the light.
He stands above a heap in the corner of the pen
Scooping
Shoveling
Hoisting away the world’s waste
but can’t get it all,
often he can never get it all.
He drops his weathered, ash-gray shovel,
kneels down to the mound,
pulls off his cowhide gloves,
and raises the waste—
taking pride in being a disposal,
smiling at something so pure,
so simple and overlooked.
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