BROOMS
5
And the finally there´s
your grandmother
Sweeping the dust of the
nineteenth century
Into the twentieth, and
your grandfather plucking
A straw our of the broom to
pick his teeth.
Long winter nights.
Dawns a thousand years
deep.
Kitchen windows like heads
Bandaged for toothache.
The broom beyond them
sweeping,
Tucking the lucent grans of
dust
Into neat pyramids,
That have tombs in them,
Already sacked by robbers
Once, long ago
Charles Simic
