the sweeper

I am older
the broom
the handle
and the wind
which are the same
the sweeper

I have seen the sweeper
in early morning
come down the city street
while drunken men and women
left the all night bar

and there was silence on the street
except the sound of the sweep
coming against the city curb
making that awful sound
of the sweep going ’round
on the concrete

and there is silence in a house
that is like silence in a tomb
and if the dead could play songs they would
and remember their loves in the words of the songwriter

for rooms that have not raised a child
or cared for love that lasted awhile
have no memories
have silence

silence, oh silence, tumbling, and silent
and it is like the sun
and the sun is everywhere


This entry was posted in 2017, literature, poem, poems, poetry, writing and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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