Send not to know for whom the dustman cometh

He cometh for thee.
 
Ever since his tenderest years, Ottawacker Jr. has looked forward to Mondays – or in this case Tuesday – as an opportunity to seek out his friends the dustmen.
 
Even when he was at his godmother’s during the early years, he’d be standing at the window, waving as they came by. They’d toot their horn and wave at him, and he was enraptured.
 
No lockdown for these guys – they are working away to make sure the rats don’t surface and the virus doesn’t metamorphosize into diphtheria and typhoid. Even now, when I ask Ottawacker Jr. what he wants to be when he grows up, the answer is usually “garbage truck driver”. Unheralded heroes of this lockdown.
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.