The buried cleaning lady

You stuck your broom between my feet, sweeping out young, expensive  dirt.

I turned back aghast at your inconsideration, expecting red knives and needles,

but there was nothing;

nothing but a yellow, mellow you cleaning the floor.

I recognised, it was really my offence,

to miss your kind blindness.

See, the thousand colourful people and the musical mall- they couldn’t see you,

and you, them.

A genial indifference,

a courteous disremember,

a mutual burial,

between you, the plaza and me.