I am a man of brooms and mops
and I know nothing more than a janitor need know:
come the morning they will walk
where I have scrubbed the night before.

I have bowed over every tile
on which a shoe will land
and each, like the flesh of my love,
has known my hand upon it.

I have brought each along like a love
to lay beneath the heel,
to bear the weight of many,
to catch the refuse of careless passers-by.

I have dressed their wounds and masqued their scars
and sent my cherished tiles to the feet again,
for I know nothing more.
I am a man of brooms and mops.