Comments about Stephen Brooke
Sweep Me Up
Sweep me up. I'm ready to go
in your box, be stored away.
My heart's been carried around too long,
been in too many pockets. Sweep me
into your grandfather's cigar
box, the one you've kept for odds
and ends and it's familiar smell,
faded as the memories
you placed there. I will be among them;
just lift the lid, now and again.