cleaning

The toilet is scrubbed,
toothpaste scraped from the grout,
spots wiped from the mirror
and the rubbish thrown out.
The benches are wiped
the floor has been mopped,
with everything gleaming
it’s time that I stopped.

In my newly cleaned tub,
stresses washing away,
I gaze vaguely upwards,
and, eyes focussing, say:
JUST HOW THE FUCK
(this bit yelled with feeling)
DID THAT FILTHY HANDPRINT
GET ON THE CEILING?”

I read this poem to my kids after dinner that day, and one nearly fell off his chair laughing before confessing it was his handprint on the ceiling. He did not, however, offer to clean it off.

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