He comes each afternoon
mop in hand and a warm
bucket of water, nicely lathered
uses the old ways to keep
our floors spotless, gives them
a tired wash, his face appears
so drained of emotion,
same old job
same old floors
same old hi and lately
only grunting as we walk by
as if the effort to acknowledge
our passing grows less important.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem