His mop moistens the floor
Where a million memories lurk
Head bowed he does the work
A never-ending, thankless task
Reflecting on the times
That might have been
Day after day
Buffs tiles to a gentle sheen
Going nowhere fast
He walks for miles
Past doors and back again
Picks papers and cast cans
With a measured eye
His calloused hands
Wipe tears and traces
Of scuffed shoes
From dreams downtrodden
Many feet, or so it seems
Have marked his path
Spray after spray
No time to ask, he does the work
A thankless task, forever bending
But rejecting pity signs
Smiles rough as he rubs and rubs
In the sodden surface spies a face
Puts down his mop, looks up
It’s only mine, it is no more