A gloved white middle finger, missing

the rest of the pack lingers

for a moment

at the far-right extreme of the shelf,

piercing nostrils hooked

on polish, can smell the residue

of a frenzied cleaning session,

but there is always a spot missed,

uncared for, rushed, each shelf

she demands being cared for,

the books must always be in order,

never to allow a single mite

of seeded dust to be encountered;

with a bitter smile of contempt, her finger

swipes a molecule of dust, and the maid knows

the birch will come out tonight, other perks

once again withheld.

On her afternoon off, the sensual Anarchist rises,

standing in front of a portrait

of her lady,

hanging in the national gallery,

she cares not who sees,

she raises an un-gloved middle finger

and spits a wad

of tar-built snot

in the mistresses’ direction,

smiling,

she knows now she earned

the gloved middle finger inspection.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018