Clean

by Heather Rae

never quite.
each flight
of ten 
just as filthy
and my 
dust pan
can't breathe
through the 
cramming,
dirty socks,
mud pies
and pinches
of salt 
just for taste.
clean.
Not quite
The wicked corner
not the only
catcher of each
past particle
shed 
from the naked backs
of little girls
no longer
wanting ice cream,
rather a door 
or a window,
even a crack 
between the floor boards
to elude the piper
who has forgotten
to knock yet again.
clean.
Not quite
Tiles wearing
colorless dresses,
lay below 
tiny lasses
whose inquisitive fingers
tip toe 
through the grout,
certain they remember
the thief with his
burlap bag
who can steal
them too.
clean.
Not quite
Blankets,
sheets and sinking ships
where children still sit
unable to swim.
Wrinkles trap limbs
in icy grips,
soon damp
with sweat stains
that never break free,
haunting each thread
with it's sticky debris.
clean
Not quite
watching soles
stomp water,
tubs be damned,
scourless soap
on a tired cloth
shines a penniless
stone 
left to lament.
Hands of the spent
claw at the skin
begging it to molt.
clean
Not quite
the crumbs
between cushions
Lie as stale
as the moth ridden
coats the young
ones wear,
draped with the foul
stenched air 
of childhoods
snatched,
once so pale
now a patched quilt
on old ladies faces
of the not
quite
clean.