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