Every day at nine,
There's a knock on the door,
I get up reluctant,
Wanting to sleep more.
There he is,
Sweeping the floor,
With a ragged broom,
A melancholic chore.
Unkempt, white beard,
Sad, hollow face,
As if defeated,
By life in a race.
Shabby attire,
Broken bucket on the side,
Full of trash,
That the people provide.
I open the door,
He looks up,
Starts sweeping again,
Doesn't say a word.
I empty my bin,
Into the bucket on the side,
Glance at him,
And get inside.
He doesn't look up,
Picks up the trash,
For the stairs,
He makes a dash.
He climbs down,
In great haste,
Has many houses to go to,
To pick up their waste...