Ode to a Cleaner
At close of day the cooling sun
casts shadows ‘cross a littered hall;
the students exit one by one,
and empty cans on lino sprawl
with lolling tongues and dribbling lips—
from tin-can mouths sweet fluid drips.
So empty is the school canteen
it reeks of grease and rot in bins;
a dirtied half of aubergine,
the peelings of potato skins.
The cleaner’s hands are grey and soiled,
her knuckles crack and fingers snap
as brittle bones are left un-oiled.
The tedious sweep ‘gainst flooring claps,
(she tastes the soured canteen air
infesting pores and oily hair)
dust jumps up, clings to trouser legs—
it leaps with every sweeping glide.
For too-tough stains, she mops the dregs
and piles of filth on filth collide.
Now sodden smears are swept and gone
the bins re-lined, the tables sprayed,
the clingy dust still hanging on
to broom-head, safely locked away.
A freshness meets the gleaming hall,
sun’s golden light climbs o’er each wall.
No more the litter-shadows creep
around the cleaner’s weary feet—
but spotless floors she cannot keep
and by next day, more mess she’ll meet.
