Mop

By Ken Chavez

In the quiet night
blend soap and water.
Pail on wheels
set in motion.
Cotton mop,
wooden handle.
The scent of clean.

Posture is silent.
Eyes lowered.
Draw mop towards self
push self away.
Flip mop over.
Tang of disinfectant
squeezed out of water.

Intent purified
I will succeed
on this clean floor.
In the quiet morning
man will proceed
on this floor.
Consummate.

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Categories: Issue 4, Poetry | Leave a comment

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