The Sweeper

His streets
long before the
flurry of the
earliest morning feet
And this makes him smile.

Not perfect yet
Nor will they be
But they’ll be better

Each stroke
Palming away
The unwanted
Always forward
Firm grip and downward
Push, past memories
Swept up with butts and plastic cups

While most look down
He looks back
He’s made a difference
And this does him.

Robert McEvoy