Up and out, way before sun up,
I prepare my "cart"--pushed along first by a middle-class mother or better,
Her child seated securely when these wheels never wobbled,
But rolled into the day with confidence, security--a baby buggy
Customized for hauling cans, glass or plastic bottles, other discards of my, yes my
Society defined by wealth and throw away treasures, like those I find to call mine.
People turn their faces away from me as our paths cross,
Wish they knew how safe and helpful I intend,
Picking up what most call trash,
My trade, my craft is all about clean streets, about
Picking up cans with a view to meals, maybe a bed,
No harm, no trouble, just trying to be free and cared for by only me.
I sweep the streets of my hometown, all around near Downtown,
I just wish they could see me for what I aim to be.
Sweeping the streets, gutters, walkways, I seek a place
Where I can do my thing, ply my trade, breathe the same
Fresh air, maybe smile and wave, not to be seen, but
Just known, understood and valued like the work I do for us.