A crimped man with a sharp stoop
sweeps leaves off the street; you wait
in the box of your car—double-parked
& restless. The sun’s glare hardens:
there couldn’t be a slower fool.
Each sweep of his diligence hails you
though & now you’d bet he’s underpaid
& the sun’s enlightened all things & you’re the street,
slowly redeemed of debris. A clear skein
hangs from his toothless mouth, pools
on his grimy sweater, glistering across bitumen:
a thirsting for a thank you—for yours,
for you, delivered from all your hurry.