They call him Joe
Joe the janitor, actually
That guy behind the broom or mop
The hand picking up
Stray wrappers and paper cups
That’s Joe.
His shoulder’s once broad and alert
Are stooped
Like his heart,
His hair; silver-gray
Life’s finer art,
He walks a little slower now
Than he did yesterday
And the children dash on by
Joe, he watches and smiles a little
With a tear in his eye
Joe, pushing a mop
That will not clean up the pieces
Of a memory
Or a broken heart
Because when Henrietta lied,
And left with his babies
The Joe of yester-years
Died.
Janet Martin
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I hope you enjoyed your pause on this porch and thank-you for your visit!