"Norm the Night Janitor"
He savors shadow, night
webbed in the stair well
where dust skitters quick
as mice and a slain cherry
Snapple has bled out. Soon,
he’ll glide over gymnasium
wood, clang keys against
gray lockers, a minotaur
dragging a chain flail through
its labyrinth. He absorbs the day’s
sounds: suck of children
kissing under fire alarms, squish
of milk shake between white teeth.
They scratch his ears like echoes,
like the wink of sprite wings,
but no time to revel - the boiler naps
in its hole: a dragon that must be primed
if stone walls are to warm by morning.
© 2008 S. Thomas Summers
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