The sweeper

A wisp of smoke,

rises from the dying embers

of last night’s fire;

formless, in the hazy morning fog.

Hard bristles,

scrape the cemented pavement;

stroke after stroke,

a sweeping rhythm, echoing in the alley.

Dry leaves, 
swept like a tide,
melting in a sea of brown-red hues
of the autumn fall;

Dust rises,

mingled with smoke,

suspended in motion;

an artistic cloud, of harmless pollution.

The sweeping ceases-

a discomforting silence;

‘til the hard bristles scrape again;

stopping only

when the sweeper wipes the sweat 
-off his wrinkled temples,

ruffling his grey hair.

Holding the broom firmly;

elegantly, sweeping the pavement,

as the morning rush gets in…

only to drown

the sound of the hard bristles,

sweeping the cemented pavement…