Old John's mission

​

You could set your watch by Old Johns daily routine.
His clockwork mission; to keep the streets of Selo clean.
A constantly irritated face, swelling with frustration,
Dominated by those eyes, advertising determination.
Everyone in the lower town knew Old John by name,
A character whos eccentricity delivered unsolicited fame.
Each day a fourteen hour shift, or so the cafe gossip goes
Ending the day precisely at six, muttering something about shadows.
So that would mean, not that Ive risen early enough to verify,
He starts the day before the farmers cockerel could be an alibi.

Daily he passes by my window cleaning like a man possessed,
His dusty clothes in tatters, almost appearing half-undressed.
The noise from his brushstrokes, like a walker in snow,
Accompanied ritually by his dust cart, rumbling in tow.
Drowning the incoherent cursing of this disturbed rumour creator
Only audible if you pass closely enough to become an appreciator
Of how focused John seems on achieving his apparent aspiration,
To free the streets of grime and what appears a personal irritation.
Orchestrating the bristles on his brush to mimic their master,
Beating a path of self destruction, unable to sweep any faster.


Over time I developed an interest verging on infatuation,
To try and get to the bottom of his unusual affiliation,
Between man and broom and their theatrical-like marriage,
So long in existence that no longer questioned on Selos stage.
Was it the brush that started this life-absorbing addiction?
Or is brushing just the sediment of an existing affliction?
To begin, each day I would ensure that I was at my garden gate,
When John swept urgently past between seven thirty and eight.
Id dip my cap to John or make a polite comment on the weather
To John, I could have been made of concrete or even not be there
Not once did I seem to penetrate the invisible field of concentration
Wrapping his buckled body and showing my presence no appreciation
He completely ignored me, asides an angry brush below at my feet,
Over time I changed tactics and conversation, always ending in defeat.
Nothing worked, in fact my deviations seemed to create a deeper fascination,
On the road directly below my gate with an amplification in his exasperation.

Then one night while lying contemplating my worrying obsession,
I decided to see if I could get any reaction by joining him in his mission.
I stood outside my garden, broom in hand, watching Johns approach,
And on his arrival, I followed his lead, being careful not to encroach.
Ten feet behind, vigilantly copying each brush stroke he made,

He stopped for the first time since our one sided acquaintance had been laid.
I froze in his medusa like-stare, unprepared for the surprise
As he glaze directly towards my face, revealing the legendary eyes
Then a ragged glove dangled in the air as he slowly raised his hand
A solitary finger to his mouth indicating that I should understand
That speaking was forbidden if I were to join him on his round,
I nodded my head unwittingly, almost tasting my hearts pound.
Im sure he smiled before pointing to the left hand pavement
With that, the communication with John was over, and off he went
This continued for several weeks, me the new addition to the circus
I refrained from sharing my reasoning with my friends, obviously curious
As to why I had now dedicated my mornings to this daily spectacle
Not divulging why the performance was now a four-piece recital
Over the weeks, as is with human nature, the inquisitions diminished
Leaving John and I to finish his route together in silence as he wished

Then around the end of the seventieth journey we shared together
Something happened that changed my understanding of life forever
Normally our day ended when we reached his estates gate
With a few muffled words, wed wave goodbye then separate
However, today John seemed to be indicating for me to remain
His long dancing finger with the permanent cigarette stain
Instructed me to push the cart inside, to unfamiliar ground
My heart swimming in a sea of anticipation, my brain already drowned
The long path up and over the hill was his secret abode
A chimney, all that is visible from the gates on the road
Many a child has stared in, imagination maximizing its potential
The tales of dead animals and eaten children, oh so influential
On the most inventive of minds, that of a small child
No wonder they get tagged with an imagination so wild
Yet no kid in Selo had ever taken up the dare
To venture into Old Johns gardens way up there
[To chap his front door and wait until it is opened
Rumour had it, the last one to try, met a tragic end]

The endless path, finally proved itself to be a liar,
When we reached a run down shed and a smouldering fire.
However this did not mean Old John stopped for a rest.
He simply unbuttoned his coat, revealing a soaking vest.
John went straight back into action, grabbing at a sack,
In the same move, throwing it over his crocked back.
Then off through the sheds doors, as if we were in a race,
So I followed suit with a sack held in front of my face.
He was already empting the contents when I stepped inside,
Taking extreme care, working meticulously and with pride.
Next he started to carefully rummage through the grime,
Appearing to pick out invisible objects, one at a time,
Then laying them out on the table in a slow motion way.
Very bizarre behaviour, as his hands were clearly empty.
As the night ticked on, I delivered him bag after bag
With no sign of us reaching our garbage chequered flag
Faces caked in dirt, sweat dripping down my back
More and more undetectable findings added to his stack
Eventually, the end and Old John stares at his secret piles,
Then he turns to look at me, and for the first time smiles.
His eyes suck you in, two gleaming partners in crime,
He then spoke to me slowly and directly, for the first time.
I am now old and need someone to take this responsibility,
That is why I have let you in on my greatest secret today.
You have been chosen, as my time is now done,
You have to continue what our fore fathers begun.
To recycle the letters, which are proven to be a waste,
Through their abuser forming pointless sentences in haste
Not using the words as they were meant to have been
Instead using phrases, He deems both unfit and unclean
It is now up to you to sweep away the verbal residue
All curses, small talk, words shouted or just undue


With a sudden flick of the switch, a blinding light came on
And literally in a flash it seemed that Old John was gone
Then after a few seconds my eyes started to adjust,
Revealing just what John had taken from the dust.
A massive pile of letters, an alphabetical heap,
Caused me to fall to the floor, and uncontrollably weep.
I composed myself after what felt like an hour
Realizing that John was being guided by a higher power
I picked up individual letters, staring in contemplation
They felt like nothing before, a completely new sensation
Neither a solid nor a liquid, almost somewhere midway
Like my mind, wavering between elation and dismay
I studied an L and then held a couple of Ps and Os
Then I noticed a written letter and once again froze
Eventually I picked it and read through tears,
Hoping for information to banish my inner fears

Paul, you think you followed me into this secret I bore,
However He chose you, just like I had been chosen before
You have the mindset to understand this responsibility
That He has passed over to be yours from today
My time has come, however the humans are no better
So you now must pack up ever single last letter
And on a daily basis, climb Selos Mount Arapie
And pour these letters into the towns main water supply.
This way the letters get another chance to almost relive
The way He meant, creating love or something positive
You must listen carefully as this may sound absurd
Every constructive sentence or singular kind word