WEBVTT

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This is called, People In
The Apartment Building.

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The sun, with Mr. Parker's
help, rinses Brattle Street.

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Mr. Parker scrubbed the
marble foyer Friday afternoon

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with a string mop dipped
in powerful antiseptic.

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And he sighs at residents who
shaped keys out of leather

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bags, prop sacks of
groceries on their hips,

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and open the door, trotting
their withered spindles

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over his chessboard
floor, leaving tracks.

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His soft lips twitch,
his warm light brown face

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sculptured in immobility,
contracts to scowl.

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He looks severely
at their backs,

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he falls to female
crankiness, wringing

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his soggy rags and
the elevator planks

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to its own off-center tune.

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But outside, a hot layer of
sunlight rocks the slush.

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The girl in number
five careens out

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of her dark doorway,
first floor.

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Her hair ready for wind,
already across her face,

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ready to whip lash like a
mop out to dry on the line.

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All wild strings, followed
by her weekend children

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dressed for the big day.

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The puffy rush of stunt
babysitter and glory to be,

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the mop-headed girl's boyfriend.

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Skinny pants, tweed jacket,
and scarf about his neck,

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who flings the outside door
wide open herding them all out,

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but letting in an old dog.

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Out of grace with its
own feet, hobbling back

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from a walk in the sun ready
to lie down in a warm spot.

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Mr. Parker leans on his
mop, a wind-lashed bush

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flickers light on
the floor, and only

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the clean glass door catches
Mr. Parker's dissolving frown.

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