She sweeps the floor of the bus station
with the same broom she's used for years,
nothing's different, it's all the same,
the kids are all right and her health is good,
she has no need to wander or travel,
and that's what perplexes her –
why oh why has she worked for so long
in the temple to coming and going
when she herself is so content?
The posters on the walls of far-off cities
hold no fascination for her, no allure –
the bags clutched by the returning passengers
trumpet their exoctic sources to deaf ears.
You'd think it would rub off on her, but no –
she simply keeps sweeping every night,
working the same old shift,
circling in identical migratory patterns
forward and back across the floor.
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