goes by at 1:00 a.m. two nights of the week. I can
hear the feather whoosh of his machine and see
one red light.
I believe that the streetsweeper lives alone,
through the cold days, waking clear-eyed and deft
as the sun goes down.
I believe that he works steadily without a portable
radio or a reading light or a nap. When he pauses
it is to stare placidly into
the potent night.
For reasons too numerous to mention, I think
streetsweeper often and about the singular,
cadence of his life.
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Comments about this poem (The Streetsweeper by Ronald Koertge )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- ....and then an empty morning sky, RIC S. BASTASA
- Magnitude Of Life, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- At present, hasmukh amathalal
- and then the night swallows her includin.., RIC S. BASTASA
- Cupid Pari, binod bastola
- my eye has a patch on the inside, Mandolyn ...
- Final Moment, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- to always be the self amidst these cacop.., RIC S. BASTASA
- what should be forgotten next, RIC S. BASTASA
- feelings creep like vines on a trellis, RIC S. BASTASA