The Dust Gatherer
Somebodies gathering dust, in the
blue-grey twilight; I see him, but
not his hidden face; he stoops down,
like a father with his child, but he
has no busy rattle,
but a dust-pan and a brush,
for scooping up the livid, fiery
dust
yes, I’ve seen him here before,
but more often, in parks with swings
and busy market floors
yet, today is not the same; no, no it’s not
the same at all; and when I ask him, why?
he slowly turned around and said,
” I’ve come to gather you,”
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