~ by Lawrence “Mack” Hall

And so, he sweeps, against the blustery winds
that blow his efforts back into the cold,
across the parking lot and far away;
cigarette ends and plastic straws adrift

His hoodie hides his face against the world,
and shabby gloves protect his trembling hands.
His body bends against November’s winds,
before the great American fast-food dream

We sweep inside, for coffee, breakfast, and warmth,
the sweeper sweeps, against November’s winds

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