The Person Who Cleans your Toilets.


Working for money is hard and stressful.
The toilet brush always drips, mildew grows like weeds.
Try as you might your efforts are unsuccessful. 
The beetles still leak from the cracks, desperate for the crumbs that feed.
And as you press your thumb against their back.
Wincing at the sudden crack.
Because, idly, you think.
You're like a beetle. 
Crawling, desperate for the crumb
You blink.
And suddenly, you are this beetle.  
Reaching your hands for outside the cracks,
Some chance to get ahead. 

You're in grammar school, raising your hand.
You were wrong.
You're stupid, and the scene disbands.
Highschool, tripping over your own toes.
Someone points and laughs.
It's the size of your nose.
And you're ugly. 

You're back in the bathroom, scrubbing the floors.
And you wish people didn't do that.
Stick their stickers on you, their own brand of stores.
Ugly and Stupid.
Someone knocks on the bathroom door.
Sticking their head in, they smile.  
they say something strange. 
"Good work,"
And you smile back, thinking.
Maybe people can change. 


This poem is about: 
My family
My community
Our world


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