The Sweeper
-
-
-
8 am.
Cotton clouds scatter
the blueing sky.
The sun stretches hot promises
to the water.
A woman sweeps the pavement
in preparation for the packs
who spill their fries, questing
for the scant, spotty grasses
nestled in hot cement.
Her loose breasts spill
over her swelled stomach;
ill-fitting uniform exploits her roundness;
the polyester melds to her
skin in the growing heat.
Her shoulders slope forward
to gather garbage in her long-handled dust pan,
the burnt skin of her neck greets the sun;
the ornamental trees offer no protection.
A $10 perm frames the lines on her face.
She pauses a moment,
looking at the sun on the water,
"Sparkles like diamonds, don't it?"
Comments
writers@onestep.com
Last Updated: March 23, 1996