The rain is falling softly on the trees, on the dark tarmac. Gray. Bright. I step out of the No. 42 on Forest Road, as the bus snakes its jagged way to Craigleith, the litter is blooming. My throat is itching with a bauble of phlegm, the reminder of my lungs cleaning and filtering. Rolling through my oesophagus, wanting to be expelled. For such is the nature of systems that filter and flow, roll and draw. And all that tis the debris of living comes, cramming up the litter bins, gleaming in the dark brightness of raindrops on litter bins. The seagulls are celebrating, rats not so much. And all the world’s people are at the Fringe. Not all. But only those who can and could, and did. For the little kids, there are fire trucks, ambulances. Police cars.

But the bin men, and the bin lorries and the lovely ladies driving the bin trucks, they’re away.

And we miss the rumble of tonnes of trash being crushed and smashed and the music of glass shattering though the crushing teeth of the recycling bin. I clear my throat, and the phlegm flies into a black bag. Mercifully hung on a rail. For everything else is now a litter bin.

Drizzle will fall, and exhaust will fall in our lungs, and the litter will fall. As we await the bin lorries.

p.s. Support humane pay. Support our Sanitation Workers <3 <3 Sophie Alal