Piss Poem

by on May 3, 2013 :: 0 comments

I dreamt last night of puddles of piss,
Babies being held up naked over the floor
And the pale, stinking results
Seeping slowly over the floor tiles.
I dreamt of brown-edged rusty stains,
Reek rising from them. Dreamt of water,
And the sound of water in pipes,
And the non-water outside the pipes
Dappling while porcelain,
Caught mid-drip and drying.
Piss, indeed,
And who to clean it up but me.
Me, armed with rag, sponge,
Scrubbing brush,
Me, with my container of scouring powder,
Itself piss-smelling evil sand.
Me, following my nose down to the ground.
What is that?
What is that?
Your piss or mine?
Fine. Clean it up.
And who to clean it up but me,
The Piss Cleaner,
Left to deal with the piss and shit
Not to mention the string beans –
O Literary Reference
Where do you get me now?
And who to shake a stick in my direction
Unless it be the stick of the mop handle
To clean up the piss.

editors note: Would we judge this custodial caste? Let him who is without piss throw the first mop. - mh

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