Awoken from slumber, I open one eye,
it’s Saturday morning, no work bus to catch.
When I stumble from bed to window, I spy
fluorescent yellow and orange to match.

The noise in my ears is a piercing commotion
of grinders and cutters and shouting combined.
‘What time d’ye call this? Are you after promotion?
Can you not delay things and just start at nine?’

Orange florescent man is holding the spade
as the tarmac pours out from the barrow.
Then with stomping and shouting the repair is made
which now makes the pavement quite narrow.

While they work one is shouting and telling his mate
of something that happened last week.
His language is choice, at the top of his voice
to be heard at the end of the street.

Yellow florescent man tidies the lorry,
packs the tools and then brushes the debris away.
Then it’s slamming the door to the next hole in the road
and that’s me getting up at 8 o’clock today.