His business was dog shit. Literally. He toured the city’s parks, emptying shit bins.
‘The grass is disgusting,’ said a woman. ‘My son can’t play.’
Alas, he thought, those whom ignore the protocol of disposal.
‘Where there’s muck there’s brass,’ he mumbled.
He was unsure what it meant, but the stock phrase killed a tiny piece of his soul with each repeat.
‘What’s the matter?’ said the woman, watching the man wince and hold his belly.
Recently, his doctor had informed: ‘Where there’s muck there’s Toxocara Canis.’
‘Roundworm,’ he gasped.
The woman sniffed, taking her son’s hand.
He forced a smile, hobbling to clean-up the shit.