The Custodian

The dark as knight, elderly man

with the hyper rapidly shrinking spine

Whom nobody sees

Just the custodian

Somewheres on the fifth floor

The place which stands directly between Heaven and Hell

with the screaming and commotion

With his wrinkled fingers

Aged hands

He. Just the custodian.

Drew the collapsed and rumpled bag

shook it , with the ease of a jazz player , twice

Then with those arthritic ancestoral hands

smoothed out the inside with a brisk swipe

With the delicacy of smelling a rose

attuned and attended

Upon completion

Wisdom…a dexterity for situations

a magic that only comes with length of years

Does work wonders

me, just a mess from the fifth floor, wishing…

He could do the same as that bag, for my whole life

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