Sweeping

I’m on the streetcar and I see a young man sweeping the sidewalk in front of his house.

He’s wearing a plaid shirt and his hair is long and frizzy. The wind keeps blowing the leaves back into place and he stops and sighs.

Then suddenly stops sweeping. He holds the broom up, his right hand frantically skittering over chords, his left hand strumming the invisible guitar strings. His eyes are closed and the wind is blowing his hair in a mad tangle around his head.

And though it’s silent inside the streetcar, I watch him singing soundlessly. Joyfully.

And I can almost hear the strains of We’re Not Gonna Take It as the leaves twirl and dance in the wind.

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