The Unclean

Things are not clean.  Even though soap and water have been applied, objects remain clogged with grease and protein, bacteria and mire.

Grease beads on a pan, coats a plate, overlaying knives and spoons.  Grease does not like soap.  Add soap and grease goes away, but with too little soap or soaks in water full of oiliness the grease hovers and swims.  Grease prefers cold water to warm.  The hotter the water, the less likely grease will remain.

Starch is another skin.  It adheres carefully and craftily, defying efforts at its removal.  It cannot be seen in the water.  Water must be removed or scrubs must be soapy and vigilant in order to ensure it moves on to pipes.  Left to its own devices, it curls and dries, affixed with tenacity.

The backs of implements used to eat and to prepare sustenance (plates and bowls, pans, glasses and cups) all need cleansing on their backs and under their bottoms.  Material hides there, ignored by those who do not consider its existence.

Toilets with urine that is not flushed begin to smell acrid and pungent.

If a toothbrush is electric and removed from the mouth before it ceases rotation, it leaves small bits of bacteria and spit on all surfaces in its vicinity.  Others who come into contact with these substances may share.

Why remove items from the floor when it is more simple to walk across them than to place them elsewhere?

Used toilet tissue does not replace itself.

The a Turns It Around

Apathy, like a virus worming its way through cells.  It gets in and makes nothing appealing.  It wins.  It is floating, moving along the surface.  It no longer feels the urge to push.  It no longer cares.  Some would call it depression, but there is no pain in it.  Depression connotes pain.  Depression is drowning while apathy floats.  Apathy is flatter, something not angry.  Depression has anger and vile, venom and spit.  Apathy is a pool of water on oil; it sits there, not even holding itself, simply roosting, waiting for nothing.

A pathos.  Pathos with an added vowel that takes it away.  Add the a, the pathos leaves.

Somewhere in my belly if I turn towards certain things I notice a place where apathy has not moved in.  It could, given the right set of circumstances.   There are a handful of things that still know pathos, that still know rage, that still know love.  Give them time and the a will turn them around, help them float.