This is here ,because there IS,
With the swish of a broom,
Resonating the thoughts of the doom,
About the bills to pay ,
About the dance to sway to.
The lunch that is packed ,
Feels insipid and crass,
To rest while his hands are in motion,
To bray while the horns make a commotion.
He plasters a smile along with the swish of his broom,
He sits because his footsteps are tied to the loom.
He makes a pretty picture ,
Thinking about the love ,who is perpetually in disarray.
He moons in the daylight,
With the songs of serenade brushing past his mind,
He loathes and yet he prays,