Mixer

Sandy used to flick cigarettes
into the cement
as it churned and gullied
in the mixer's laundrette whirl,
guzz guzz guzzing through a slough
of mulchy grey clothes,
the orange caps of lit fags
like warning buoys in a north sea storm,
clanging at the night swoop of gulls.

When the Lord Mayor cut the ribbon,
resplendent in a top hat like a lump of licorice,
the tobacco factory collapsed.

The smoke cleared;
a litter tray of ash
and spent
ends.