This is called, People In The Apartment Building.
The sun, with Mr. Parker's help, rinses Brattle Street.
Mr. Parker scrubbed the marble foyer Friday afternoon
with a string mop dipped in powerful antiseptic.
And he sighs at residents who shaped keys out of leather
bags, prop sacks of groceries on their hips,
and open the door, trotting their withered spindles
over his chessboard floor, leaving tracks.
His soft lips twitch, his warm light brown face
sculptured in immobility, contracts to scowl.
He looks severely at their backs,
he falls to female crankiness, wringing
his soggy rags and the elevator planks
to its own off-center tune.
But outside, a hot layer of sunlight rocks the slush.
The girl in number five careens out
of her dark doorway, first floor.
Her hair ready for wind, already across her face,
ready to whip lash like a mop out to dry on the line.
All wild strings, followed by her weekend children
dressed for the big day.
The puffy rush of stunt babysitter and glory to be,
the mop-headed girl's boyfriend.
Skinny pants, tweed jacket, and scarf about his neck,
who flings the outside door wide open herding them all out,
but letting in an old dog.
Out of grace with its own feet, hobbling back
from a walk in the sun ready to lie down in a warm spot.
Mr. Parker leans on his mop, a wind-lashed bush
flickers light on the floor, and only
the clean glass door catches Mr. Parker's dissolving frown.