I watch the street for the street sweeper,
every Thursday morning.
I sit on the front couch,
and stare like a hawk.
It's a finger drumming event,
pulling my mouth's one corner taught and
then again releasing.
Eye stretched all rubberband'd.
Once it scrubbed and varnished my car.
And left me a note with demand for fifty dollars.
As such an old man with burred hands
and old tee shirt for a rag reached
at my dress shoes in South Station one day.
I'd like for it to not happen again,
I'll keep an eye out.
Just remember to keep watch, I do.
Keep thought that light moves quickly.
Faster than the speed of sound.
