Pole to the ground,
Straggly coarse strings at his lips,
He holds a mop to the
height of his eyes.
A moment of longing,
the life of the cleaning utensil
I turn to the right, a moment of distraction,
and then to the left, a desire of hope,
In the futility of life,
the man is gone;
His memory is wiped away by the mops of my mind.
Seconds of Time pass,
Dirt accumulates on earthen soil and
Clutter grows into ripen trees.
In the fertility of green,
the once shirtless old, balding man,
strolls back into my vision,
his torso clothed.
The afternoon cleaning shift has just begun.