We see him every Tuesday and Thursday, patiently sweeping the streets in our small community with smooth strokes of the broom. He greets everyone he meets with a smile and politely asks about their well-being.
He is an elderly man, supposed to be retired, but here he is toiling away in sweltering dry heat from the sun, clothes soaking wet from days of endless raindrops peltering his weather-beaten face, and freezing cold days, diligently doing his bit to make our lives a little more bearable.
Mr Street Sweeper sweeps and picks trash up that is strewn everywhere by taxi commuters and pedestrians, who mindlessly discard their trash wherever they walk. Nevertheless, without so much as a whisper of disdain under his breath, he just bends over and collects heaps of garbage dumped since his last tour of duty by inconsiderate people on our pavements, all the while softly whistling a song only known to him.
How clueless and oblivious can human beings be to such poetry of service? We salute you, dear Mr Street Sweeper.
