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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.

Categories: Poetry

Tagged as:

alslaff

Poet, Writer, US Army (Retired)

I dreamed of writing when I was a youngster. The love of books and writing may have helped to dull the pain of severe sexual abuse as I was sexually abused by two men at my father’s place of work from age 8 to 12 or so. I learned about this for the first time when I was 50 years old. So, as a boy, reading was the only place I had to go to. My fantasy world was better and safer than my real world. I loved reading and writing.
Reading books and writing poetry are a joy to me still and are an important part of my life. (See my About Me page on my blog for the complete profile.)

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