Cleaning the floor with a dust mop
on a cool three A.M. Wednesday
made cooler by the swift and blow
of the shine faced vacuum packaged meat
locker air to the left and right of shoulders
and lips are smacking hungry for a lunch break
creeping up by the pull of long florescent lights
along the rope of hand over hand tasks
and a shred of paper clings to the line
of black netting between linoleum and scuffed tiles
and bending knees stiff with half a days distance
to their credit and approaching overdraft
to pluck it loose between thumb and fore finger
worn smooth by the low grit of various
handles teethed by dozens of hands before
the realization dawns that the supple grip
of stickiness is not glue
and the dimpled face is no kind of tape
backing and the grains of plaque
on a mouth soda fed and little else along the way
can taste the buttery tart highs
and kettle drum lows of
split and licked skin
balancing like droplets of oil
on the vinegary meniscus
squeezing milky from the crown
of a stomach.
Flick it away. It goes nowhere.
