The truck driver hurls the empty oxygen cylinders on to the truck.
It’s 7.00am outside the old folk’s home.
The old people need them to breathe.

There must be 50 cylinders on the truck.
Some large, some small.
He throws them like he’s angry.
As if their weight is an insult.

Magpies sing in the trees.

The driver swears as he ties them down.
They were a slight against his dignity.