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
