New brooms are awkward and stiff.
They haven’t had time to learn about corners
and where the cracks in the linoleum are.
They are still too vain, with their shiny red handle
and their tidy straw, all the same length, that
doesn’t like dust bunnies to cling.
Give me an old broom with split ends,
its handle scarred from one too many foray
under the bed. An old broom that doesn’t mind
having a bunny or two between its straw teeth.
One that knows its place and leans against the wall
on slightly curving bristles, only sliding down across
the path to trip unwanted visitors or bill collectors.
Old brooms sweep clean and so much more.
They thump the ceiling when the upstairs
neighbour gets too loud. They fish things out
from under sofas and off high shelves.
Old brooms are the stars of every limbo contest ever held.
Give me an old broom any day.