html website builder

They send her to me,
four feet seven of bone and sinew, more muscled
than I'd thought possible,


and that mouth - me still stitched and silent,
unable to stand erect, hormones elbowing for
attention. At first, her talk unnerves me,


doesn't mince her words; she spits them out,
exhaling bleach and brimstone, and whatever
comes cheapest in packs of ten.


Cleaning's her obsession; she likes things nice, doesn't
sit down, has no time for males - good for one thing only
and no bloody use at that - never happier


than with mop and pail, or sorting, filling, hoovering,
doing battle with a steam iron, forked tongue
flickering; primed for the next skirmish.


I'd strip the clothes off their backs
to wash them, she says,
if I ran out of things to do…


She's an elemental force, sluicing through the grime
and dust, a thing possessed - never happier
than when one-on-one with dirt and mess,


rumbling about the grubbiness of men,
the inevitability
of soiled linen.