“Not even interested”, stalls my efforts
banished from his care, even though
I am no more dirtier than most
hatred sunk for reasons I know not.
Taking the wrong milk by accident,
paranoid idiots eat at me
imperfections arise, a medical status
leaves me off the hook, conundrum convenient.
Cutting trowels through swathes, extensive
areas on my own, a good deed
deserves another, borrowing a mattock
small hands make light work, with effort.
No cigarette breaks between breaks,
not breathers digging through ditches,
uncovered stone gold, and bone
dismembered skeletons in a little space.
Some altruistic good can come of this.
Beside motorways and roads, a sacred space
is what has come before, hallowed ground
equated with walling and souterrains.
The catalogue of the disinterred recorded,
running up the sum of most of its parts,
this site served its purpose, keeping us fed
before the peace of progress supreme.