The Cleaner

Air cold, misty halos on the street lamps
You trudge, the nightly fight with twisted gate
Reluctant to let you in
Alarm disarmed
You entire already tired
Fatigued to the core
Dispair slumps your shoulders
All those biscuit crumbs
Sticky finger marks
Each night you wage your war
Hoovering over the same spot
Earasing the footprints of the enemy
Crayons ground underfoot
Fused to grey grim fibres
New works of art each night
Bold colours on the walls
You plug your dated music to your ears
This could take a while
Leaves in the foyer
And vomit on the walls
Then to the dusting
With rhumatism creaking
Elbows aching
Hoovering is the bane
Of the dark hours
So long
So tiring
Time seems to stretch

Posted: Thursday, May 28th, 2015 @ 8:26 pm
Categories: Poems.
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