The sweeper

The sweeper
The sweeper with a thin, frame of body,
With a packet of hurriedly baked breadfast,
tucked on the left of her sari frills beneath,
a sort of shrunken belly, her faded broom
mechanically sweeps, her thinking rocks
with the thought of her six months old baby
in the cloth cradle hung to the beams
across the thatched house, she sweeps,
the drunken husband stealing her
carefully hidden coffer, the awakened
idea suddenly sweeps her mind,
she sweeps or does her broom sweep?
Who knows, inwardly she weeps for her
Predicament, her broom sweeps the dust
On the floor, she weeps, she sweeps.