Potswash Poem by Christoph Praus
Potswash
The hush of stale water,
Sodden, black, greasy fat,
Tainted porcelain and dull steel,
And who comes to wash it away?
The lowly potswash, enrobed,
In spun black cloth, black capped,
His hands are weathered true,
With chemical experience and age,
In matters cleanly he is sage,
He is the potswash, his mind is new.
Monday, April 20, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: cleaning
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5/5/2024 8:39:23 AM # 1.0.0.1119
