The Custodian by Joe Lofgren

The custodian looks
as if he will fall dead tomorrow,
as his methamphetic body
pushes garbage
floor to floor.

This is the frail heaving man
as he leans to the sideways stumble,
half aware gander
through the longest halls
of his life.
I wonder as he passes
those who gawk

misunderstood

if he doesn't wonder
about the mores of custodial arts,
like the fine dexterity
in waxing previously
puked on floors,
or the recognition 
in something that
never gets dirty.

Does he clean 
around thoughts of sole order
or is there some hidden, shrunken, 
wrinkled reason,
for his peaceful radiance?

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[Joe Lofgren]

Link to Closed Critique