Wish I was a cleaner

Sixty hour weeks muscle their way through
again
bullying and snatching away
my time
concealing it behind
yesterday's
yesterdays

their blows are often resounding,
the hammering down of lunches
tasteless and dry
they bitterly throw themselves
lemming-like
before rubber necking the soul's distress.

Sleep casts shadows,
shadows made by my choosing
and I untie my duty bound
mind
then appear in neglected toilets with mops, cloths and soaps
gradually bleaching the darkness to light.

That night, I think not of ladders to be climbed
rather
I slide over
'slippery when wet' floors,
freely whistling tunes I thought I had forgotten.
Unaccounted for
unshackled from status or rank
for eight hours exactly
lost in the dirt, the shit, the shine.

Alarmed, I climb out.
Shower, toast, door
to pause, to stop
to frantically polish the mirror's grime,
to save my cleaner a job next time.