She nudged the bucket with her toe,
And, on four wheels, it squeaked ahead.
Still two corridors left to go,
Then she’d head home and straight to bed.


The fifth floor was assigned to her -
She intimately knew each tile.
On the other floors, her friends were,
Co-workers, she’d known quite awhile.


She swabbed the tiles with her rag mop,
As she’d done for the past ten years,
A mechanical swing, non-stop,
Her Walkman sounding in her ears.


With the music, she sung along,
Although her mind was far away.
She knew words to every song,
And, to the beat, her hips would sway.


She’d pause every now and then,
Soak the mop, and ring it half dry.
Then she’d nudge the bucket again,
While wee hours slowly passed by.


The Grant Building had emptied out,
Most workers gone home by five.
Just the cleaning crew was about,
Waiting for break time to arrive.


Then, at the long table, they’d sit,
In the big shots’ plush padded chairs,
Not intimidated a bit,
For, at night, the building was theirs.

 

© By RickMack (Rmrickmack@aol.com)

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Watch these pages for more poems by RickMack.
In the meantime, click the links below for
poems and stories by our other authors.


Old and New

Yellow Jacket

Acorns

Wishes

Home

Bopper Finds A Lady Friend

Echos Of War

Careers

Death Of A Fireman



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http://graphicsbymarilyn.com

graphicsbymarilyn@yahoo.com

© The featured image is a RickMack (Rmrickmack@aol.com) original.