The Sandman

The street is a canvas
And his scooper the palette.
He hears “Thee voice”,
Then paints the messages with sand.

Shadow thin, with few teeth remaining,
He dresses in black.
Does most of his work after dark,
Only to see it obliterated by noon.
Not unlike Sisyphus,
Will start a new piece
Before the next sunrise.

His wrist moves confidently
As he “paints” his messages,
“I’’s topped with four leaf clovers,
Occasionally seeking help with his spelling.

I doubt his passion provides a living wage,
Which likely accounts for his bedraggled clothing
And emaciated body,
Neither of which diminish a genuine smile.

Whether today’s effort will involve
Gigantic wishes for honeymooners,
A word to the wise, or a full moon,
Upon completion, they satisfy the artist.

His work invariably asserts
Life as a positive force,
With sufficient humor
To add much value to my morning walk.