Carpet Bombing

He was a toilet cleaner

But hey, were we Mailmen -

Hardly brain surgeons and just as

Miserable with work

His intense acidity, though,

Stemmed from an alternative source

The summit of his animosity was reserved

For “the dirty bastards” (as he called them)

Spitting their gum into the urinals;

“…blocks them — causes overflows…” he’d curse,

“But I’ll fix them” he promised

Conviction is admirable, I’m sure;

But Fleming’s penicillin is not a panacea.

And on every single visit that week,

Evidence of his method was manifest as he

Disposed of the offending obstacles

A premeditated, sporadic littering

Of tiny chicle balls peppered the

Blank innocuous tiles that ran across

The floor of that small room, ensuring

Uncontaminated navigation impossible

Others, innocent in deed, and unaware of the peril,

Carried away the resin on their shoes and sandals

Traversing other areas of the office,

Leaving deposits on the rugs, carpets and linoleum

I challenged this strategy but could offer no reason nor logic

Able to permeate his stolid, inflexible righteousness,

Dominated, as it was, by the postulation of associated guilt

Maintaining his position like an old trooper

Even as he knelt down in his little cupboard

To prepare the necessary detergents required

To clean the rugs, the carpets and the linoleum