Every morning I look out the window to see how my dumpster is doing, and yesterday it was doing badly. It had been emptied but was surrounded by sacks, bags, clothes, scrap metal, the usual paraphernalia. A young couple had gutted a sack and scattered its contents in search of some treasure but, no matter how hard they tried, it didn’t make the situation much worse. There are the stairs that connect my street with the parallel street, and where in the evening the boys meet for a beer, and the next day the stairs are the continuation of the dumpster, a carpet of bottles, pizza crusts, butts . The garbage collectors arrive and collect everything, with brooms and gloves, where they can pass the water and say nothing but it is as if I heard their curses. I thought of the 360 euro bonus wanted by the mayor if they are not absent from work during the days of Christmas – so the city will be cleaner – and the consequent shock of indignation. I also think of French and English cities and many in Northern Italy, but also in the South, where the bins are no longer there, abolished, yet the streets are decent, and I love my dumpster but I wonder if it still does there. Perhaps it is not the fault of the garbage collectors. Neither the budget in perpetual passive nor the differentiated which is a comic nor the lack of facilities nor the widespread filth is their fault nor do they receive the salaries of executives who have failed for decades. Then yes, every day 15 percent of garbage collectors do not show up for work. But when I see them down there, in that dunghill, two lines of fever immediately come to me out of solidarity.