Three Men and a Concrete Mixer

Three Men and a Concrete Mixer

This should be a play but a poem shall have to suffice because I cannot be bothered and that was the collective look on the faces of the three men and the concrete mixer who I aspyed outside the shop that used to be a charity in Bath Street, Aber.
'Stryd y Baddon' a native might say. 
Hang on, maybe this should be a play put on by Arad Goch. 
The faces were priceless but bored. 
If chewing tobacco was still a thing then that is what one would be doing, the one looking longingly out to sea, shall we call him Mick!
He would rather be the Captain of a Tea Clipper or a Pirate in the West Indies than mixing concrete in Ceredigion amongst the Saturday afternoon shoppers.
I'm giving them all old fashioned names because waiting for a concrete mixer to finish is an ancient art that involves the incantation of seaweed and salt. 
Sid was the one in the middle and the one with his hand on the tiller.
He would be tipping in a short while with a supreme but laconic confidence.
Builders and labourers the world over knew Sid, for they were him.
They were the Boss, the man with the invoice and the gap in the front teeth.
Jimmy didn't want to be seen, he was more your moonlighting thespian.
His back arched, you could sense his longing for the concrete and its mixing to be over. 
The boys could have done the sand dance or the soft shoe shuffle while they were waiting. 
Gone busking perhaps as the thrifty three but they knew as soon as they clocked me that I would be writing about the photograph that I had just seen.
"There is no privacy to be had Sid, is there?"
" No Mick, these Playwright Poets are bleedin everywhere! It wouldn't be a bad thing if they took a turn on the concrete mixing instead of trying to fix our lives for us"
"At least we're earning and time and a half at that, unlike him who has probably had to apply for a grant"
"Yeah he's a wanker right enuff and he shouldn't really be raiding our intimacy like this. Worse than the tabloids that we read with a fever over tea."
fellas, fellas, I'm sorry but I am going to publish and be damned because your faces should be set in concrete, a kind of Mount Consti for 'labrwrs' instead of Presidents.