cleanliness is next to madness and the hounds snap
at her heels as she folds
the washing into neat piles of whiter than white.
her day has rhythm alright,
that just won’t
dogging her brain until she wants to beat her head
on the brick wall in time with the rhythm of her day,
the pulsing of her blood,
or is it the sudsing of her machine,
the tumbling of her dry heart
beating in time
with the syncopated rhythm
of her day.
and they bite at her heels and blood
drips on the glass floor,
and she’s careful to walk carefully lest she slide
in the sticky redness and crash right through,
but she must dance to the syncopated rhythm
of her life and there’s nothing
she can do but load up the dishwasher
and pray everything comes out clean.