The Mop Speaks

I chose this poem as a wild card because it is rather a different side of me, a more angry poem, as a mop describing its experiences. The description in my opinion brings the mop to life; whenever my mother makes me mop, I always try to be gentle. I think trying to understand the world from another object's point of view is important; after all, understanding one another is our only way to peace.

The Mop Speaks: A Wild Card

Rough wood my body,

long and luscious and limp my hair.

Too bad THEY don’t understand that

hair is not supposed to be used to

clean up Cheerios and toast crumbs and peas

that fall on the floor.

THEY plunge me into soapy water

then drag my head

across the grubby ground;

then I am shoved back into the bucket,

shaken and stirred in a cocktail,

the main ingredient dirt.

My favorite type of THEM are babies;

we share a secret bond that only other

floor cleaners would understand. Too bad

THEY grow up.

Sometimes I get a break from working,

and am waltzed around the house in

THEIR arms.

It hurts to know that I am only practice,

perfect practice, for another one of THEM.