filth

I rub with goo-be-gone. Get that icky sticky goop off the windows. I shine with windex and smear away the streaks. I sweep, mop, dust. No dirt is acceptable, not a sprinkle of dust. And in the end it is clean.

But I cannot get the goop off my heart; no windex can shine the streaks off my soul. I’m irreparably stained, I’m dusty and dirty, no broom can remove the crumbs, no duster clean me.

So I steel my smile, I laugh out loud and put a skip in my step all the while knowing the filth underneath remains.