Dirt Therapy

No one of sound mind wipes
the kitchen counter after every use.
Spilt coffee grains,
tanned sugar granules, sometimes
ox tongue blood have their roles in life.

Replacing objects in their rightful places
is a sign of madness as well.
Pepper and coriander grinders,
extra-virgin bottles of olive oil are licensed
to leave fairy rings on surfaces.

Tiles like children embrace filth,
clothes in the laundry basket
thrive happily when left unwashed.
Obsession with conquering dirt marks
the megalomania of anal personalities.

Like that woman in starched white
who pushes pills into my unteethed mouth.
To clean my thoughts, she says.
The taste is bitter; I never ask for water.
In this place, barred by lunatics

I refuse to be sullied by sanitation.

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