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.