The bent man sweeps the still morning
After Diwali, littered with pieces of spent revelry,
Still warm and smelling of yesterday—
A spent night fossilized in the morning’s flesh—
And disappears into the woods with his wheelbarrow.
A cold morning clean and clear like a spring dewdrop.
The old wind sweeps south taking the tar
And smoke hanging in the air above the city
Away with the smell of the festive night
And what remains sticking to the ground
Slipping through the hair of the old broom.
The calls of morning birds fade out in the din
Of a bright new day under the October sky.
The shadows of buildings creep across the city.