"disinfectant" poems
The world melts
My senses combust
My fingertips tingle
The world sways
I sway
I collapse
I feel numb
Disoriented
Everything goes dark...
A light.
A siren.
A vision of faceless faces.
I am alive.
The smell of disinfectant.
The idle chatter of two nurses.
A buzzing in my ear.
I am alive.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
I never knew what caused the truck to crash into our car that morning. Perhaps it was the rain and the road was slippery, perhaps it was yet again another case of “do not drink and drive”, or perhaps the man behind the wheel was not at all to blame, and that it was the fault of the engines.
The crash and screech of metal on metal was deafening. It happened so fast and when I woke, I looked to my side and saw a face I knew so well, except this time I could not see her beautiful features; her skin was covered in blood, like red paint splashed onto a plain white canvas. And in the red I could see glistening shards of glass, like diamonds proud to have finally found an owner. Then I heard in the distance, voices and shouts. I could not make out the words they were saying, as if I was trying to hear someone underwater. I looked up outside the window, and there stood a man shouting at me, a foreign face. I feel my tiny figure being carried out of the car window, as the door decided it would not open.
We waited on the terrace of an old lady’s house for help to come. The shock made me feel numb and so I just sat quietly, with the cry of my nanny in the background, her body hugging my sister and my mother, who are unconscious and have yet to know what had happened.
Then, I did not how, but I arrived at the hospital where I saw my dad run past me into the room. I remember mostly the smell of disinfectant and finding little pieces of glass in my hair.
I lost my ability to speak for a few days after the incident, and I feel now that it impacted me more than I thought it did.
The shock and horror are no longer, but it is strange now to remember what had happened. When I close my eyes and recall the accident, some details are so vivid and clear. Yet at the same time, I feel as though it all never happened, like it was some sort of false memory implanted in my head for no apparent reason.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
multimedia macramé
sloshing propaganda sewage
on the unsuspecting public
***** lice infest ****** hill folk
west Virginia outbreak threatening the world
as we know it
flesh altering nonsense explicitly graphed
charting movement of microbes
on air, land, and/ or sea
global currents the new deliverer of death –
infected immigrants sit smiling
internment camps providing nutrition
never before experienced
as non-natives negotiate freedom
by submitting to vaccinations baths
and the standard delousing powder –
paranoid hand-sanitizer users
glued to the **** tube
spray their shoes with disinfectant
praying to an absent GOD for health
while shoveling GMO corn chips into ever widening
mouth holes
pharmaceutical companies lick lifeless lips
as Congress recognizes their humanity
while rejecting the concerns of the poor
…..no money in it –
outlandish claims of outbreaking Ebola
flood the mainstream outlets
fear: version – infinity
one more plague plan to stimulate new legislation
more law
no touching
even looking at the infirm can be cause for isolation
radiation treatments
courtesy of Fukushima, reactors 1-4 –
new found focus on fracturing the shale
releasing new oil reserves
and old bacteria
dinosaur killers
free-radicals
radically changing the genetic code
humanity altered
once again –
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
Breathe...
I walk into your room,
And turn away from the caution sign that greets me.
The room is cold and smells of disinfectant.
I creep up beside you so as not to have you wake.
I avoid the lines that provide you life.
How small and helpless you seem.
Just a fragment of your former self.
A stranger...
I hear someone enter the room and I turn my head towards them.
The judgement and embarrassment are evident on their face.
I feel pity from those who watch his torment.
Eye contact is avoided.
They recoil from his touch and reach for the gloves,
That place a barrier between them.
I turn back towards my father.
So many memories...
Both good and bad.
I focus on the memories filled with joy.
The ones I wish to remember you by.
I keep the pain buried deep below the surface of my heart.
The silence is unbearable.
I reach for your hand and you turn your head towards me.
Your smile is quiet and no longer reaches your eyes.
There is no need to speak.
I feel the anger bubbling up inside me.
At the thought of the pain you must endure.
So many others out there in the world
But you were chosen to bear the stigma.
How did he contract it?
Is he gay or an addict?
I tried to ignore their ignorance,
But I just want to hurt them,
And have them share our pain.
I remember the day they told us,
"Sir you have AIDS".
I froze and looked up at you.
You told me it would be okay.
A lie to protect me from what the future would bring.
The end is near.
I love you Dee with all my heart,
And I will share your memories.
I give you one last kiss before you close your eyes,
You will now be free of the pain in this world,
Let your soul finally find peace.
I say goodbye for the last time,
And watch your breath fade away.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 7:35 PM UTC
In moments of raging to the hospital, the jolts from the road, the squeal of the tires, and the tripping of your feet only multiply your anxiety. Delicacy is suspended amply in the air, hanging daintily on the thread of life and death.
Delicacy is the soft and inconsistent beeping from the cardiac monitor. It controls your thoughts; yet is only a shadow on your radar. It shares the rhythm of the pounding in your head, and the thumping in your chest. You strain to shut everything out, leaving only the shy quiver of breathe slithering out from their lax lips. Their lips tremor under the reign of some foreign enemy, and their eyes flutter from an unseen truth. It is the suffering you wish to unburden them from, the pain you would inflict upon yourself in return for both their lives intact.
Delicacy is a light fragrance, a mixture of disinfectant and sweat. Is it the scent of creating a life, or the imminent end of it? Beads of perspiration stream down your face and sting your eyes.
The sweet caress of silk treads faintly underneath your fingertips. You rub the back of her hand, clammy and fragile. Rubbing the skin, you forget who the comfort is more for while footsteps pierce the stillness in the air. A figure dawned in white appears before you. Their form blurs in and out of focus, their voice a toneless muddle seeping through your cloud of stupor.
Delicacy is a whisper flashing goosebumps across your skin, "We can only save one of them." It is the realization that too much pressure, and two months premature, is a cocktail dyed with poison. She looks to you with eyes of understanding and acceptance.
Delicacy is the collapsing of all you know. It is the berating of incoherent words tumbling from your lips for the pure sake of escaping. You're swiftly taken from the room, kicking and screaming to the hallway.
The unsettling tick of the clock mocks your every fiber. You **** the void of silence with the tapping of your foot, taming yourself from barging your way into the room. With the screaming from the bed, the instinct of protection, the stiffening of your back, the nurse quickly ushers you back in.
The soft and consistent rising of the baby's chest is surrounded with the light fragrance of life. The plush fibers of the yellow blanket tug on the skin of your fingertips. The fascination apparent in your eyes, look to her while wondering how this little body will have the biggest impact on your life. Delicacy is the soft whisper flashing goosebumps across your skin, "We made it."
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
The ball goes down the lane
it clinks on pins
and down they go,
the shoes fit just right
and everyone you know is in sight,
being taught how to spell the letter R
of your name by your great aunt Vi,
seeing your funny aunt Marlene,
being with your grandma Ross,
and going to Sammy's Restaurant
for grilled cheese,
and the pharmacy for pink Trident gum,
all this under one roof.
I run to the lane
the ball goes down the lane
I run to the counter in time
shut off the lane
and CRASH!
no pins fall
the sound of the ball ricochets
from one end to the other;
my mischievous ways fulfilled,
and God I loved the Fanta pop
which my dad, the manager I was
proud of, readily supplied,
the place is now gone
but it's life still goes on
the pins crash even louder,
the disinfectant shoe spray still as smelly,
the oil of the lane still slippery,
and the grilled cheese still as good;
and carried on to the current day...
Georgina would have been proud!
http://www.robross.ca
Nov 23, 2009
Nov 23, 2009 at 11:46 AM UTC
With out stretched arms aimed at the sky, i danced with the clouds
singing her memory in my head
tears strewn across my face
the tattered bandages of time, erased
lost
like milk cartons,
but no signs to hold her place
no burial grounds but the white walls and too bright lights,
a symphony of disinfectant, and medical waste bins
and me with my muscles
me with my logic
me with my ****** sense of what makes a man.
stand strong they tell you
don’t cry they tell you
be found they’ll say
just know, just know
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 6:55 AM UTC
Go walk the streets of dust city remains
where fragments of your rubble houses linger.
Feel the bleach injected in your veins
as you press the jutting steal against your fingers.
A glittering tornado tears aged bricks away
and new pristine white walls strike you down blind.
Where wooden skeletons of homes gave way,
now empty windows flash down the street side.
When your lungs are poisoned by the disinfectant breeze
and you kneel down to cough on grimy cracked concrete,
when the toxins take you and hands start to seize
lay your worn head down and feel your city’s fading heartbeat.
What kind of people spit on the condemned
and cover up the suffering with phony plastic gems?
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
Rebellion smells like apples, cinnamon
and *****
On a gravel road swallowed whole by
a surrounding forest of lush greens
we stood in opposition, revolution
firearms nestled in our hands.
We rebelled against alcoholism.
Drunk, amber soldiers stumbled across
the uneven surface of the log they vacated.
Our bullets shattered them one by one.
The rifle’s kick back slammed against me.
The cracking echo of each gunshot
filled the hollow chiseled in my chest
and tenderized my brain.
Shards of hard cider and hard liquor
spattered the dirt; the bright red
of the Angry Orchards’ labeling
bleeding war into the earth and grit.
We searched for survivors.
The air was perfumed with Cinnamon Apple
and *****
The soft spice of autumn and harvest
wafted gently up my nose
followed by the sharp scent of
disinfectant, hospitals, stainless steel.
It was the smell of ***** my default.
Nudging a dusty bottle neck with my toe
I couldn’t help but think back to
the angry, open-mouthed kisses
I once shared with my bottles
early in the morning until late at night.
A furious thirst surged through me.
I still wanted a drink.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
I see you laying there
starving
sleep deprived
yearning for a home
Now of course if I see this
it's not something I'd condone
So I take you in and for once
love is the only thing your shown
But I guess too much love is infectious
My guards down I'm defenseless
As you grow sick
You grow expectant
of me
Of me cleaning your mind with my hand made disinfectant
Of me feeding you
Feeding you with a dish of my famous soul stew
Of me staying up till 4
Staying up because The thought of you asking
and me not having the perfect reply devours me to the core
Of me picking at myself
Picking at my skin to make sure that these arms you call your home are presentable
Of me being selfless
So selfless that I forget to eat and I won't rest because I feel inclined
I HAVE to give you the best
Of me trying to be name brand
Trying to be name brand because you've had enough cheap ones
and so I give you real because for once they will attack and we will remain strong standing hand in hand
But i guess even name brands wear out
Ive been trying to replace the worn pieces with out a doubt
Though
I have no help because of my reputation
I have to make the parts with my bare hands and imagination
Don't worry about me though
I'm done with this hell
My orphanage is going back on the market
Going for sell
And if there's no one brave enough to step up to the plate then I guess I'll have to blow this house down on my own
It won't even be hard because I'm not like my brother who made his of stone
As I said from the beginning
I see you laying there
starving
sleep deprived
yearning for a home
Now of course if I see this
it's not something I'd condone
But baby now My walls are brittle
So I'll just cheer you on
"You got this! Been doing this since you were little."
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 10:51 AM UTC
Somewhere in the furrows of pink and gray
flesh, nestled between delicate arches of pelvis,
in what was supposed to be bowels and pulsating warmth,
lies the wish for chemotherapy.
Old images of skull-white sundresses
glimmering with the glory of summer days in the world of Perfect Thighs
fester imperceptibly,
buried in some remote corner of the midbrain
that smells like half-digested chicken parmesan;
each memory’s tastefully arranged––
rows of wheat, sharp as disinfectant,
sour with antimetabolites and metastatic guilt.
October levels prospects like a hurricane,
and as your mother balances a salad fork between chalk fingers
the full plate in front of you reminds you of ruptured organs.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 11:20 PM UTC
It was all faintly lit gloom
where her silhouette wouldn't betray
if she was sleeping or awake
amid the thick smell of disinfectant
the world debarred from the room.
I trust not one of you, she would say,
*moving germs, a tribe of dirt,
that's what all of you are*.
Countless times she would dress and undress
drenching herself with dettol
changed linen time and again
and her only pursuit of happiness
was denying even the closest an access
to evade disease only she knew.
Others would find in her
a diseased mind.
When she died
men were hired to burn her
and the celsius ensured
she had a germ free passage
to the next world.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 9:13 AM UTC
I was a new-born when you promised
You would carry me anywhere I wanted
And at any time I wanted,
You promised me safety
You promised me freedom.
Dedicated and deceptive
You had teased me growing up
But I never would have predicted
How malicious you could be
You fooled everyone, even me.
Parts of you were destroyed
But you always found other ways
To stick out, ugly and obscene
You screamed at me, you harassed me
And everyone else recoiled.
You were ruthless, relentless,
I needed your permission to leave
On the worst days I could do nothing
But lie there and seethe.
You were always there waiting,
Until I was distracted, to capture me
Trapping me in a time loop dimension
Loop after loop after loop;
Like an elaborate knot.
My tongue no longer tasted
My humanity began to rust
Like a corpse and its restless ghost
I was dormant but deprived of sleep
How could I rest under your glare?
Like a deranged anaesthetist
You forced me to the very edge
I hung over that abyss, wondering
If you would let my hand go, or pull me up
Until boredom struck again
Amidst the beeping and droning machines
Serpentine, you still twisted around me
Pungent disinfectant; the white-room scent
And the pointed metal tips
Their shrieking tongues turned to monotone.
Well, organs and cells,
I had long outgrown you and
Your demented, slothful ways
What did we have in common
Anymore aside from me?
But we are bound like conjoined twins
As fused together as can be
I’d die without you, you’d die without me
I aim to live in harmony with you
And help you gain a much sunnier hue.
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 4:06 AM UTC
A metallic seat.
Hard orange plastic.
Strip light sickness.
And I look at you.
Disinfectant scrubs my throat,
sterilising the language I want to use.
And I look at you.
Naked feet, white tinged with yellow.
Invisible socks.
Cotton top welts left in your ankles,
flattening the spidery hair.
So much hair.
And I wonder,
when did you get so tall?
And I look at you.
Sallow face, a dehydrated
caricature of youth, erased and lined.
Needles **** the marrow,
the muscle tone gone but
stubble erupting, handsome underneath.
And I wonder,
when was the last time I saw you?
And I look at you.
Frail arms, thick bandage cuffs
giving little comfort to the empty purple beneath.
And I wonder,
was it how you imagined?
Clean blade?
Neat slices?
Choreographed claret leaving a poignant splash
on your final soliloquy?
Head to camera, atmospheric lighting,
ready for your close up.
Someday you’ll be a star.
Or was it sordid?
Brutal?
A smashed bottle?
Hacking, mangling,
uncontrollable blood
aimlessly gushing, drenching the rambling note
so the words washed away?
No camera angles.
No haunting memoir.
And I look at you.
And I wonder.
When did you become so lonely?
And I turn away.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 9:46 AM UTC
I don’t
want to **** you. I want
to be in the same room
with you.
there is
something about you
that reminds me of myself.
yellow mayonnaise
and a pickle. that’s all that was left
after you left.
you thought I’d **** you.
you didn’t leave a note.
you left
that dress
hanging like a blue skeleton
in the closet. a green pickle
and a blue dress. I hold it up
to the disinfectant of sunlight.
smell it as I close my eyes.
I want you here
trapped in honey or amber
but when I look
you are no longer
in this
room.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
I've never liked hospital room flowers
Their plastic, chemical smell mixed with the scent of disinfectant
Fake yellow, greens, pinks and whites
All the colors of pastel
No reds or blues, why's there never blue?
Sometimes they come with squeaky foil balloons
Brightly touting phrases like, "get well soon!"
And "we miss you!"
Cheerfully shouting the words to eternity
To everyone, but no one listens
But what's the purpose of flowers?
All they've ever done to me is cause depression
They stare you down as they slowly droop and decay
Wilting, they seem as if to say, "look, look at us"
"Like us, you are dying, slouching, falling into mortality"
Then when their rank water is cast aside
Soggy limp flowers and leaves tossed in trash
You're sickened by the task, rub your hands in disgust
Feeling as slimy as the cold ooze on the stems
What's the purpose of hospital flowers?
I've never liked them
All they've ever done to me is cause depression
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
in the tauntingly quiet
florescent hospital hum
waiting for a hospice bed
people floated in and out
along with the scents of disinfectant and Salisbury steak
all spoke, in muted tones, words moving
through the liquid silver air of the night
they would squeeze your hand, gently
maybe casting a glance my way
before they walked into the dead vinyl tile halls
to the white squeaking sounds of faceless nurses’ shoes
where the obligated visitors would
breathe a proverbial sigh of relief
for they did not want to be there
at the moment
at the horizon between the slits in your eyes
imagining the ones behind the walls
and across the hills you would never again see
I would be there,
recalling horizons we had seen together
perhaps with you in my arms
before words built walls between us
and years were soaked up like desert rain
after seasons of doubt and drought
I wondered if you would ask me again
or if I would say yes this time
and if that would be enough
to release you
surely, I gave you life
another father and I both did, I suppose
could I take it as well
if you asked me again,
to increase the drowsing drip
of modern Morpheus’ elixir?
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 10:42 PM UTC
She doesn't start in the morning
like she used to,
and her gears are slipping.
Lost some of her pep
going down the street,
and is always going in for
something or other.
There's that clicking noise
whenever she takes off;
her chassis is sagging.
Leaves an inconvenient,
messy puddle
when she's parked for too long.
Maybe it's time.
Time to clean out
all her nooks and crannies
of the detritus
of years of family life,
and haul her off to the bone-yard.
Perhaps someday,
new life will come from
some old parts.
Until then,
let her sit and finish rusting
with all the other used-up
relics, loved once and forgotten,
compressed by time
into shapelessness
in rooms stinking of ***** and disinfectant.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
Seven New Poems for Seven Days #2: Hover^
My Children:
Ancestral homes oft possess,
a unique scent, product of an atomizer, a memorizer
Musty time, the odor of
faded and shadow,
hollow, yet hallowed.
Somewhere along the road,
a residence transforms from home to
shrine-storage unit-hospital room-tomb-records depository.
Dust, expired perfumes,
the sweet odor of crumbling, yellowing books, disinfectant,
stale medicine chests, years of furniture polish, sabbath candles.
It is my smell -
the parfumerie of my history, a customized blend,
a commissioned work in 1964, entitled, more accurately, emitted,
"Her-Story."
Photographs, memories, and paper scraps
my very own Preservation Hall Jazz Band.
Yet the most potent firing pin for historical retrieval,
the molecules of scent.
Soon all will be dismantled, discarded,
just plain dis'ed.
Confused and disenchanted,
my departure orderly but, in a disordered fashion.
unable to seed one last kiss upon your forehead,
nonetheless, surreptitiously enter your neurons
though my entity, away, across the miles-wide Hudson River.
For three days, I will hover invisible,
implanting myself once more,
slapping your mucous membranes,
transversing this pathway, an additive to your cells, nuclei,
where my markers always reside.
Adding one more ingredient to your inner vision,
strengthening the formless structure, my altered state.
This odor, keep close, fresh, no becoming musty too, my scent,
the last of your senses knowing me, a true keepsake.
*Hold me close and hold me fast.
This one last magic spell I cast.
This one last magic smell I set fast.
You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.*
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
A curled-up bundle of skin and hair
Adorns the window-seat
The sorry remains of Kitty
The old lady down the street
To those who saw her struggle daily
With her heavy shopping trolley
All of her ignorant neighbours
And her estranged sister Polly
To all of the people
Who used to stand and laugh
Here lies Kitty, loner Kitty
Written on her epitaph
Kitty was a lonely soul
No family or friends had she
Only the teenagers two doors down
Tony, Beth and Marie
They'd pop in on pension day
And ask her for a loan
With no intention of paying her back
Got money for drugs then left her alone
Just the other day
She'd decided to have a look
In the sideboard drawer
For her pension book
The book wasn't where she'd put it
In the right-hand drawer
Maybe she'd done like two weeks ago
Dropped it on the post-office floor
Mrs Kemp had brought it round
Said she'd noticed it after she'd left
She stressed she was lucky that it had been found
Nearly a victim of I.D theft
Her state benefit had been cut
Though not told the reason why
Thinking about rent and energy bills
She'd often sit and cry
Tony, Beth and Marie are banging on the door
What do they want from Kitty?
They've had it all and they want more
Kitty is now at peace
Her maker she has met
She died alone in squalor
Her heart filled with regret
The council fumigated the house
Used disinfectant till it was replete
The only evidence of Kitty
A large stain on the window seat
There are so many like Kitty
But no-one cares ask why
Abandoned by society
And left alone to die
All that remained of Kitty
Was curled up on the window-seat
The quiet soul with no-one
The old lady down the street
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
Although, I’m mindful of the President’s tweets
and the pundits’ chatter;
And, while I keep up with the world news that matters;
Amid the pandemic, the politics, and the police brutality;
I often settle my spirit on . . . poetry.
I take some time.
I free my mind.
S l o w l y, I sip from a glass of smooth merlot wine.
I relax,
I kickback,
and I ride the rhythm of the rhymes.
Because after a bit,
the constant “Breaking News,”
the quarantine,
the vanishing Lysol disinfectant spray amid covid19,
the social-distancing,
the quest for a vaccine,
the protest rallies,
the unsettling maskless scenes,
and the viewing of America’s racial unrest,
just invites unwanted and needless mental stress.
So, during these anxious days of shelter in place,
I retreat to a quiet and pleasing space,
where literature calms all worries within.
I find a book. Take a sip.
And, I warmly welcome fiction like a cherished friend.
Nov 29, 2020
Nov 29, 2020 at 1:57 PM UTC
Her beauty is astounding
It leaves my heart pounding
I won't bore you with the details
But when she walks past an angel hails
I try to explain this feeling
How she sets my head reeling
But she pushes me away
"Ugly got too close to me today"
She doesn't care that I'm a girl
And she sets my head in a whirl
It's my look she objects to
The cruelty of nature, through and through
Every day I try, I do
To get those thre words out "I love you"
Every day she shows me
The dirt is the only place I can ever be
"Ugly. I'm pretty. You're not."
I don't care a jot
Her hands are filthier than mine
Disinfectant doesn't change a detail so fine
"Ugly. I'm pretty. You can never be."
It's true, I know, as I fall to on knee
She looks perfect but her heart is flawed
There's only one way she can be cured
"Pretty. I'm Ugly. You should be too.
I only do this because I love you
The knife slices through her skin
I hold her frame, so gentle and thin
"I'm Ugly now, you're to blame."
Through her bandages her eyes are aflame
"You were always Ugly, to the core
Be Pretty my love, as never before."
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
Every time we meet
I feel like I need disinfectant.
Every time we talk,
I feel like I need to talk to the father and ask for redemption.
Every time I see you,
I want to close them shut and never wake up.
You ****** me over too many times before.
You seem to think that you can move me like a *****
Well,
*I'm not your little **** boi*
You think you have such power,
***** you're nothing to me**
I wish I could find
this thing you made me lose inside.
I wish I could forget
there ever was an us
Because I like it much better
just being alone.
Away from you.
You are infected,
evil,
and a nervous wreck.
Someone needs to get you a life,
lord knows you can't do it on your own.
just talking about you makes me crave lysol.
Look,
I'm sorry to be bashing on you,
but this is necessary
in order to forget
everything you ever were
You call me a ******
but honey,
I've been called WAY worse.
I've been called your boyfriend.
And that beats any sting you can inflict.
You are the lowest of the low,
Im glad I was able to get away
cuz *****
I wouldn't wish you upon my greatest enemy.
I seriously need to see a shrink
after you.
You caused me so many problems.
I kept going back.
how could I be so dumb?
Answer
because you made me believe you loved me,
only to drop me like a sack of bricks
I have finally gotten over you.
But the disgust still lingers
I would shake your hand and say goodbye,
but then I'd need to buy more disinfectant
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 3:54 PM UTC
She wears blue rubber gloves
Middle aged, with light, brown hair
She pulls it back in a pony tail
Her eyes match her hair,
Brown, but dull and dried, uninspired.
With her hands, she holds a cart,
with a container of trash, black trash bags,
two wooden poles, and her disinfectant just below from where she holds.
She pushes it, and it rolls over the floor.
Her parents promised her a good life,
that she would attend a college.
She has made it.
She has late nights like every student
Like them, she visits the second floor of Wells, tired,
but in her brown custodian attire.
The lady makes her rounds every four hours
every day of the week.
Her legs and feet slow down every time she returns
And her worn out shoes decay even more
When she looks in the mirror in the restroom she can see the wrinkles
around those eyes of hers.
In a different time, she would have covered these areas with makeup,
but now she wonder, 'is there any use in that?'
We ignore her, we've seen her too often
She is like an invisible ghost,
you don't see her, can't hear her.
She's is leaving now, after cleaning the restrooms, pushing her cart.
It's now 8:16pm, she'll be back at midnight.
I will see her then, before I leave
It's a date that we have, but only I know
but I'll ignore her, I won't smile nor talk to her.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC