Clean Scum

It’s amazing

How many

Times I’ve

Sought just

Peace and

Refreshment

At a diner or

Bar, only to

Have Within

Seconds

Of being seated

Some troll

With a mop

Or Spray bottle

Trash my drinking

solace or dining

experience by 

Spraying deadly

Cleaning chemicals

On a bar that was

Already clean. Just

Now a squat, obese

Creature came up

Behind me at

The Denny’s

Counter and

plopped a mop

in a bucket 

Filled to the brim

With Amonia and

Who knows what

Else, creating a toxic

Cloud that within

Seconds scalded my

Throat so badly that

I got up and seated

Myself by the old

Fart who amused

Himself by calling

The hapless young

Waitress honey,

Sweetheart, dear,

Etc. then chortling

About it throughout

The course of my

Brief meal and scalding

My soul in the process.

Toxic clouds of unnecessary

Cleaning agents and loads

Of dumb rude retired

Boomers everywhere.

Leave the counters

And floors be, scrub

Slaves, or at

Least don’t sanitize

Them every five

Minutes for me.

I recall

Reading about

American tourists

In Henry Miller’s

Day leaving French

Restaurants aghast

That the French had

A few other things to

Do with their lives

Beside scrubbing

Everything in sight

Constantly, as though

Americans could

Ever clean up the mess

They’ve made of

Nearly every pure

And perfect thing.

— Fyodor Bukowski