The broom dances on the concrete,
Swaying left and right,
Back and forth,
Unearthing the dirt off the ground,
Building up a storm in the air,
A brown storm we call dust.
Churning and turning and mixing,
The dust moves in sync to the air,
With the broom humming a beat,
A beat that only the dust is familiar to.
A fest of a sort is going on,
The sweeper unaware of,
The scene unfolding beforehand.
What goes on in her mind,
Is as oblivious as the surrounding about her way.
