The Window Washer

Each house has a window,

With double sheets of glass

To let the eyes know

What events there pass,

Or to show the fine glow

Of the moon on the grass;

All while blocking out snow,

And the fumes of the gas.

Window's can differ, there

Are some with a sheen,

Or, to let in the air,

Some come with a screen;

Some can't be seen

By anyone at all:

A layer so clean

Becomes a hole in the wall.

And in old Mr. White, there lingers

A long-lasting fear

Of children with greasy fingers,

That smudge the glass and smear,

And he fears flying things –

A bat flew in once after dark,

Flapping madly; it's wings

Left many a mark.

But today even he,

In his well-heated place,

Is too found guilty,

Of leaving a spot,

By pressing his face

To his layer of glass,

To watch a knot

Of monkeys pass.

So he called on me

To wash them clean;

“For a window,” said he

“Should never be seen.”

I wash then I hold the mop's head –

Squished to my hand – heavy, inert:

A caterpillar – large and dead,

Which I wring free of his dirt.

He's right: a window is shown by a smear,

So when you feel my breath in your ear,

Listen. I'll make myself perfectly clear.