The bathroom tile in this men’s room is clean.
Someone has worked hard to make this floor shine.
A piece of paper towel rests just inches
From the trash can, it seems so out of place.
 
Once, back in school, I was a janitor.
I understood the art of making the tiles
Sparkle, keeping them white and well polished.
My boss told me they should be clean enough
So that folks could eat an egg off of them.
 
“Make them floors twinkle like the God damned stars,”
He’d say, then laugh and hide in his office.
I’d hear his laughter while I worked away.
“Make them floors twinkle like the God damned stars.”
These words still echo like songs in my ears.
 
I bend down, pick up the paper towel.
My old boss would have been proud of me now:
An English instructor cleaning the can,
Still trying to make it a plate for eggs.
 
He died a few years back—hit by a car.
He was happy and drunk—swaggering home.
They said he passed with a smile in his lips,
And I hoped he had seen those God damned stars!