Everyday I see him
sweeping his walkway and drive-
brushing away the leaves
that skittered up the curbside
in the shadow of the streetlightís glow
and straightening out  those daring
to drift in past noon.
Sweeping, sweeping, sweeping.
Weathered hands wrapped tight around the broom.

He is always dressed the same:
plaid shirt , fedora, and bolo tie.
Iím sure the neighbors think him strange.
Occasionally, I catch his eye
with a wave and he waves too-
then back to the broom
and sweeping, sweeping.

Does he curse the leaves I wonder?
Or, do they receive his blessing?
Is he shooing memories away?
Or, gathering them with his sweeping?

by Tom Spencer

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