The Irate Cleaner who washed

her business in public, was once

quite sweet, her younger self

only bitter when it came to

the lies she readily told

each boy who dared like her,

as she waved her yellow duster around

as if it was some kind of regal artefact;

a certain reel to lure them in

and then treat them like dirt,

who questioned them too far

and who with a sense of gleeful spite

and not a tear recline

from her just outside Wrexham collapsed face

she now sits in harmony with the rag hag

of the faded glory duster,

reminiscing over the dead

and her smile,

insecure, jealous driven

rotting teeth, sink into the remains

of the bones of her parrot;

and who would one day choke

on the bile she has spread

as she cleaned other people’s houses.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017