Cleaning Up His Mess
His deep voice beckoned my back to my room
To complete a task I had done before.
But now I was to clean up his mess
As if wiping up his spilled milk.
The warm air filled of musk
I was directed to the fold.
The creamy liquid coating folds I knew well
His large hand, palming my head like a basketball,
Pushed me in to clean his mess.
The briny taste filling my mouth and scortching my throat.
I worked until he was satisfied.
But my labors gave her none of the old pleasure
And the walled echoed with their mocking laugh.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Cleaning Up His Mess by Derrick Thompson )
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