The Cleaner Cleaned

Wake up, as the light trips over her windowsill,
The light breeze that wanders dozily under her door barely disturbs the dust,
That coats her shelves, picture frames,
The pile of unread books beside her bed.

A cup of tea breathes its last warm breath on her table as she dresses,
The radio muttering to itself on the side, the tea cold, her feet cold.
That cold light gazing blankly through her window at her hunched figure,
The cigarette whistling Wagner as she stubs it out on a dish.

Her broom holds it's breath as she sweeps away other peoples evenings,
The box of other peoples failures, discarded.
The stains of other people's accidents.
The stench of other people's carelessness.

An argument, a broken glass. A bucket of decay,
“What is this bucket of decay” she asks.
But there is no answer, no echo.
No reflection of her sadness. The windows just frame the inanely grinning sky.

A paycheck, some apples.
A glass of lager taps a broken rhythm on her cracked lips.
Beside her, old clothes. An old man.
The television bores them with tales of last night's dreams.

Other people's dreams. The love of others.
A dressing gown, stained with tea and age,
Her bed, warm, smiling back at the sky,
Who winks, teasing. Until Friday morning comes.

A death. A dreamless sleep broken only by the screaming of the robins,
Tricked by the streetlights as they mumble,
And dribble down, onto the pavement.
Untrodden, unswept. Asleep for the night.

Glamour (a funeral in corn)

We lie, beneath tequila skies,
'neath the sigh of the shifting sands,
Wont you hum, my lover, that melody,
While we dance round, hand in hand?

Oh when, dear friend, will we lie again,
Beneath that sea of green,
And point out wonders, two by two,
And dance to a tambourine?

Oh careless glamour,
Oh glamour's madness,
That old tip-toeing lie.
We drowned her long before the snow,
Joined the shifting sand and sky.

Your box of sounds, long rusted shut,
Hosts a mournful shadow play,
With the whistling embers, dust and soot,
Singing softly in the hay.

Oh dance, dear lover, spread yourself about!
Melt your flesh into the corn,
Before cold lips forget the words to shout,
And wither, dead, forlorn.

As a sunbeam dear, though you're far from here,
As a falling star or stone,
I'll come to you, to your heart and hearth,
To your flesh and hair and bones.

To that place where once, before the snow,
'neath tequila skies we lay.
Where the ember's glamour cast its glow,
And kept us warm within the hay.

Soil Again

Look far past the trees, my lover, myself,
And pray not to the Loam that dreams lightly,
Throw your hands to the Clay and scream sonnets of wealth,
Or just whisper sweet things in my ear.

For today she arrived, with her handfulls of Sand,
And her feet making Dust in the sky,
She looks East for a change, and describes to the Silt,
Good reasons for saying goodbye.

Did you sing to her, son, with you heart under Stone,
Did you beg for her lips, did you plead for her breasts?
Or did you lie under Loam, where you heart never beats,
And just pray she walks nearer to thee?

Was it West she like best, with the Mud past her chest,
Did she let go of the rope that she threw you?
Or did East call her back, soft and naked and cold,
With a picture of you in her hand?

Does the place where it hurts lie South of you now,
Does your sweat stain the Sand, do you feel for her now?
Did her skin turn to Glass? Was it soft to the touch?
Did she ever ask you for much?