WHEN the rubbish truck comes down Sour street the racket is deliciously appalling: as motor growls and crusher grinds, and every household mastiff finds the reason for his calling - and would-be tardy sleepers meet defeat. Lean cats that prowl the backyard border slink off until galvanic cans are emptied. Lids clatter to the ground, and quarrels reduce to truce while garbage barrels are shouldered spite of sentried lunges at Atlas-replicas of order.
The dogs are leashed to stout chain-holders. A boy stands in the kitchen window watching his idol lope back to the truck. Someday - with just a bit of pluck he'll fill those boots, stride matching: and lift the universe upon his shoulders.