The Mop
The ragged mop leaned on the door,
Soot between its dreadlocks.
The handle worn,
The yarns gnarled and in shreds torn.
Discolored from the filth,
And year-old soapy grunge.
The mop now stood rejected,
Dirt it could not preen.
The only reason it stood out,
Was that the floor was sparkling clean.
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