A Poem for the Street Sweepers

You sweep the streets
of a nation,
carefully brushing over
ditches and cracks
accruing dust,
as the wrinkles
on your face
seem untouched
by the same care.

I cannot begin to
feign an awareness
of the burdens
you have born,
balanced precariously
on the backs of bicycles,
the curvature of neck and spine,
the pinky fingers
of your heart.

But I cannot help but wonder
whether you deserve
better

than this.