Sweeping

The broom echoes in the atrium.
Clear light
cold pink February morning.

The neon sign cycles
Hot Bagels Hot Bagels Hot Bagels.

The broom’s push-pull repeats
as I drink this morning’s cup
of Major Dickason’s blend.

A moaning wind
underneath the entry doors.
The supple ring of elevator bells.

Tony said yesterday
that he had hopes
for the new century but they
had died
in a God shaped hole.

The century mark is just
a label.
The ineffable broom
is an ordinary thing.
All of this
is so familiar.

2006