Sweeper

Sweeper

Daniel wakes at 5:30 in the morning, urinates, and brushes his teeth.
He puts on a ragged t-shirt, a fading pair of jeans, socks, a pair of boots he bought with borrowed money.
His lunch box has what he can afford: a baloney sandwich, an apple, and some water.
Sitting on the train he is invisible or maybe he just blends in so well that he is so ordinary that.
At work he places his lunch in the gangbox and grabs his broom. Throughout the day we sweeps, going from room to room. Floor to floor.
Following directions, all the while focusing on his job, which is to sweep up the dust left behind by the other crews.
The tradesmen. The carpenters. The plumbers. The electricians. They have a future. They are essential, unlike Daniel who is expendable.
A common laborer with a broom sent to and fro to quietly sweep up the mess left behind. To sweep up the dust and dirt like so many lost souls fallen from materials that create impressive buildings where people will impress their friends with views of the bay or mountains.
Where they will watch fireworks from their balconies. Where they will host parties with wine and cheese. Where the rich will vacation in style without the hassle of pieces of wire or slivers of metal framing to stick in the soles of their feet?
 Without fine powdered gypsum to get mixed into their cocaine because it has all been cleaned.
It has all been swept up off the once cluttered floors by the quiet apparition in dust-covered boots, his ashen soul lingering among the whispers.