JASON OTIS The Closer The grime that hides its head in the corners Sometimes looks nicer than the streaked tiles No matter how tirelessly they’re scrubbed The light always reflects differently from Angles of those who didn’t toil themselves But what of the mire that heeds no reflection And is still let to remain in its rightful place Pushed off to the side, left to fester A buildup of grime from years of waste You can’t get rid of it And you don’t want to Because those who didn’t toil Pay no mind to its absent rumination
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