he has no calendar

He has no calendar

His cheap cigar burns to suppress smells.

A moment of respite and a strike

To light up the smokes from a death-stick.

Now a young sun leans on blue terrace.

He sweeps the night out of the city,

The broom turns day after day after…

The strokes turn each page of diaries.

So simple that he never counts day.

Dawn means broom-time evening means

A pint of spirit down to sway walls.

A pail of a place to lay darkness,

A wife not to touch nowadays as

He is pious and says” touching means

                                     Making babies.”

And there have been so many touches.

Touches of red on the sky! Wake up!

So just days blend and obliterates.

He, the old sweeper never counts days.

 

 

Reviews

[Travis Lawrence]

Thank you for the review, and I would have to return the words to you here. This is fantastic, time is not real, or, at least the way we measure time has no actual bearing here. Well done! I especially like "He sweeps the night out of the city, / The broom turns day after day after�" because it shows the continuity of your point. I look forward to reading more of your work.

Have a nice day!

[Cece]

oh beautiful metaphors for the sun
now really the part
' " Now a young sun leans on blue terrace "
that is beautiful genus
yummy i am short of words for this
and anybody who knows me
knows that is so unlikely

[E. M. Murren]

What a wonderful profile of a man at his leisure... yet not at the same time. Lovely read... beautiful write.

[alternative_be]

Apart from the fact that I would use the word scents instead of smells, this is yet another of your gems!
Reading your poetry is liked being sucked into the scenery and the life of the main character, so you can live what he is living, feel what he is feeling...

[Legion]

You have an interesting way of formatting and writing. I like it. Love the story of this as well. Kudos.