He sweeps our floors,

polishes the door-knobs, letter-boxes,

cheerful in undoubted boredom

with each swish and rub.

His trousers show great age,

hair much dedication -

a spiky crest - competing

with wool-bound rasta pony-tail,

the whole in conflagration with a plethora

of rings and studs.

Shoes? Least said the better.

Hooded, wary eyes

see crucial things the many miss

and act upon them.

He lopes out of our lives from time to time

to spend heart-tugging weeks

caring for the direst needs of others.

Small, abandoned, sick,

with wandering minds and untried hearts

they lie, sick and abandoned,

in far-off lands. Life’s cast-offs,

to whom he must surely be a God.

I think he is.

He re-appears, silently, to sweep our floors

for weeks on end. Then vanishes

to lay his hands on these abandoned children

and give them the love they need.

I’m sure he is.