The Sidewalk Sweeper

The idea for this came to me today on the way back from the coffee shop, watching a sullen man sweep the sidewalks clean in the cold. This draft could use a little work, but i think it much better than the wine bar poem. Please comment, if you wish.

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“The Sidewalk Sweeper”

To right, now back left,
His battered broom chafes the stony walk,
While the sidewalk sweeper grunts
His London song.

Stops long to gaze on the lipstick’d cigarette butt
To wonder how her perfume smelled, tucked ‘neath
Her checkered scarf, for warmth.
Then, eyes move forward, to scan the plane—
Plain like the frozen dust that dots his own
Grayed scarf, moth-eaten in time.

Silent in mouth, and muted in dignity,
The tall bowed man sweeps the day’s
And night’s trash into its ashen
Funeral urn. And, brushed into the sieve,
Hidden amongst cellophane scrap and frost,
Settle the collective memories
Of the past day, silent, grave, and still.