I suddenly spot the smudge of fingerprints
on the gloss cupboard door, that resonate
like smashed glass in a neglected bus stop.
I wipe them in an instant, the chemical scent
from the products used a far cry from the one
harnessed from Saturdays past.
My feet slowly slide upon the polished flooring,
which no longer stumble blurred over concrete curbs
and rain drenched back fields. My finger is sliced
on the serrated bread knife, the cut sterilised by
it’s uselessness, I toss it’s rusted blade aside along
with the shredded paper and burnt photographs.
And upon that armchair that sits uncluttered, I park myself
on this makeshift throne. This cleanliness now seeps
into my pores like radiated soil, and leaves a stain
far too easy to remove. That sparkle from the mattered
carpet seals my satisfaction, another day of filth
washed out of sight.