The Broom With No Owner
No job, no home,
Completely alone.
I pause on the side of the road.
The broom stands racked,
My bags sit packed,
Because I have nowhere else to go.
Insignificant like the dust
My talents begin to rust,
No longer needed for society’s woes.
From my purpose, I’ve been robbed.
To the Low Lifes, I have been mobbed.
A new nation of invisible people continues to grow.
I use to see my smile in the shiny clean floors,
Now all I see are opportunities behind locked doors.
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