Parking Lot Sweeper

The old man sweeps the parking lot
Before the sun appears;
He pushes dirt or snow around
As he has done for years

I pass him every morning, but
I do not know his name;
He waves to me as I go by,
As I then, do the same

Until the day comes when I see
He’s not there anymore;
I scan obituaries, though
I am not sure who for

I feel a blinding in my eyes,
A strange, descending mist:
For one human connection
That I made, and that

I missed

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