sweeper
Carol Raftery
he is a brilliant man
a brilliant man who sweeps for a living
chasing away the dustbunnies with the swoop, swoop
of his big fluffy broom,
“i got straight A’s in high school,” he drawls
a cloudy film creeps over his fading brown eyes,
eyes once so dark people called them black,
so black the iris was not discernable from the pupil
“i didn’t have to take my final exams and i graduated with the
highest honors,” he said
“and i won the state championship for long-distance running,
set the school record i did,” he says, his voice rising, straining to validate the point,
as if to reinforce this memory for storage in his own brain
he pokes his broon into the corner behind the soda machine, stirring up a cloud of dust that drifts lazily
up, up, catching the sunlight that pours through the cafeteria windows and stops to hover
around the old man’s nostrils
“Ack, ack, ack”
he coughs into the ratty gray hankerchief he has pulled from his left front trouser pocket
he wipes his mouth and nose, and stuffs it back, all the while, looking thoughtfully
into the dustpile at his feet
he turns his back, picks up his broom, and once more begins to sweep
