The Cleaner by Abigaile Louise LeCavalier

Amazed at the way
the rubber gloves
almost fit,
as ifmade
for someone just like her,
but different.

She started in the kitchen,
bruising her knees
on the cold linoleum floor,
staining her elbows
with a mix of grease
and all purpose,
industrial strength,
professional use,
concentrated cleaner.

Which barely made a dent.

He sat in his chair watching,
with his ever present
glass of port.

When she was done
she lit a cheap cigarette,
not as satisfied
as she thought she would be.

And he poured
another glass;
not for her,
for someone just like her,
but different.
So she put her ashes in his palm,
as she walked out the door.
With no trace of a smile
on her face.

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