I hear the quick sweep of the sweeper’s brush,
Dust billows around and around the air,
Bringing upon its face a ruddy flush
That makes me stop my work and loan a stare
To particles of grime that lift, to float,
Aimlessly, and move, here and there, to float,
Upon this window sill, that man’s wool coat…
My mind trips and wonders at my thought’s gall:
My thought: to be a speck of dirt on you,
To be with you, move with you, live with you,
To imbed myself upon you; be true
To just you and be all that you be, too.
A flick of your finger shall waste me though;
As Man or Dirt cannot cancel my woe.