Fallen Leaves

Leaves strewn across a courtyard are swept into a pile beside the nearest rubbish bin. One man, covered in green from head to toe apart from his face, wields the broom responsible. His face, wind-beaten and cracking, does not waver from its place.

He wipes the floor with the stubborn bristles, mops some poor idiot's lunch off the tiles, breathes in the stench of body odor in the air.

Many folk pity him, but he does not entertain their amusements. They are childish fiends in his eyes, no matter how old they may be. People who mock the hard-working will find no solace in their laziness.

The bell rings and hundreds of men and women exit the old Victorian-style buildings surrounding the man in green. They shuffle their feet through the pile, scattering leaves across the pavement once again.

Time passes and the garden falls silent. He stands, staring at the mess with his one good eye, waiting for the energy to replenish. Starting again, he sweeps the broken leaves into smaller piles, holding onto what dignity he has left.