Sweepers

        Sweep, sweep, sweep. They’re

At it again.  I’ve rolled over

Several times.  Each time

The sweepers stop as though

They’re checking my pulse,

But on they go again.  My

Hearing isn’t as it was,

And my dreams albeit

Short push me away; so

I can’t be sure it isn’t a

Breeze or wishful thinking

Beside their point, I’m

Sure, well, some of the time.

Sweep, sweep, sweep,

It’s as though they’re at

Me with more intensity:

“Move along, make a hole,

You don’t really do anything

Anymore.”  And I’m 

Edging as near as I dare

Toward the end of the page.