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The bent, brittle bristles dig into the thin black carpet fibers,
And dust rises from the previous day's traffic.
Salt crystals and dirty slush occasionally fly from the flicking broom
Thump, thump, thump - the tips go.
Each morning, as the 5' tall Hispanic woman
Tends to the labor before her,
even though there's a vacuum down the hall.

So empty and ignored, the innovative 21st century can't even help it escape the closet.

But what the closet doesn't know is that at each flick of the broom
A memory is cast into the room.
A reminder that dirt floors and mud huts still exist today somewhere,
somewhere in a place that is cherished and cleansed as if it had ceramic white tiled floors,
brick walls and rooms with real lights, working electric and running water.

Each time the bristles flick a rock, a pebble or a salt crystal,
somewhere - someone - is thinking of her and the place that she once cleaned.
The place that now collects dust and could only wish she'd whisk it away.