the street sweeper

the street sweeper

The cockroach of the interstate,

he scurries on the walls of streets

with feathered feet that whisper secrets

of the night to sleeping asphalt.

Perched above the road, he trains

his eye to trace the shoulder’s curve,

guiding his discus brush to swirl

the line like ballerinas spinning

on stage. Inside, the world is still.

With callused hands he plays the screens

and dials of the night-machine

in well-learned, rhythmic patterns, and feels

his mind detach to float out through

the bug-stained windshield, dissipate

into the city air and take

him far from where his sweeper drones.

The KJV in her lap, at night

his Mimi used to clack her worn

arthritic needles through the yarn,

weaving him in tales of Saint

Peter and John, who climbed the Mount

and begged to set up camp—but they

were told to go back down, she'd say,

to work below, God's hands and feet.

November chill has sniffed the cracks
and slithers in to coil around
his filming coffee, the gritty sound
of rumble strips mingling with FM cackle.

Long nights, when licorice freeways stretch

ahead for countless miles, he thinks

of John and Peter descending the peak

to tread the dirty streets of Phillipi.



- published in Showbear Family Circus