a neat pile swept, reaching for the dustpan... stymied by a gust
Bristles flex against the flagstone.
Like Bruce Lee with his nunchaku,
she works two brooms at once.
she lacks fury and showmanship.
She’s oblivious an audience has formed.
Like Bruce, her body is coordinated,
capable of describing two arcs,
in two separate directions,
The soft scraping sounds
of two bundles of bristles
is the neighborhood’s wake-up call.
The hush whispers of leaves skittering
is the subdued scream
that cannot be ignored.
Like a demonic whisper,
all that’s quiet is not gentle.
[National Poetry Month, Poem #23]