A crimped man with a sharp stoopsweeps leaves off the street; you waitin 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 youthough & now you’d bet he’s underpaid& the sun’s enlightened all things & you’re the street,slowly redeemed of debris. A clear skeinhangs from his toothless mouth, poolson his grimy sweater, glistering across bitumen:a thirsting for a thank you—for yours,for you, delivered from all your hurry.
Photo by Kristen Sturdivant on Unsplash