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