Adjusting to life's changes with hope… through poetry, haiku, and commentary

The Sweeper


He sweeps,
He mops,
He knows
the floor
well.

It is enough
for him. Or
so it seems,
but not for
me.

He is not
the one who
is jealous.
I am.

Are his
longings as
unknown to
him as they
are to me?

Everything
she drives is
bigger than
she is.

Her endless
energy comes
from a
greater
source than
her
ever-present
iPod or so
you’d think.

Bucket
loaders as
big as a house,
forklifts
whipping around
the factory floor.

Empty this.
Fill that. Move
this, clean that.
She doesn’t
tire. She does,
and does, and
does some more.

Does she have
hidden desires
or is her music
enough to soothe
her soul?

I’m weary. My
mind never rests.
It wonders and
wanders and
seems to lock on
why.

Sad news today.
Israel mourns
the brutal deaths
of three young
boys and asks why.

I ask why. Lord,
why do I ask why?
How much more?

A forklift rattles
by. She is here;
I’m elsewhere.

I ask and a single
thought enters
my mind
suspended above
all others.

The sweeper sweeps.

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