Scullery

The mop makes a dismal instrument.
Dear froth. Dear dross.

Dribbling like an idiot, it droops
along the halls, swelling soot
with transferred damp. Dear filth.

Dear futility.

What does the wife imagine?
Backbone of the household—
has she no eye for senselessness?

She prods muck along the lower moldings.
Dear maddened cattle.

Dun white, the mop works like poltergeist;
the smut's not lost, just sloshed about.

This was best left locked in a closet.
Dear beard of a sordid old man.

When the job's done, there's little silt
the tangle will relinquish.

When the job's done, the unkempt
head is found face down in the tub.

Copyright © 2009 Sarah J. Sloat All rights reserved
from Court Green
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission