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.