The forecourt cleaned and gleaming, inviting
everyone to drive up to the pumps. Shined back
from carcinogenic black to haematoid red
with spit, and a rag that hangs
from the pocket of these dungarees.

My brow, once cleaned and gleaming, inviting
sweat; it trickles down, prickles my neck;
frenzied fire ants lancing venomous tongues
behind my back.
I think of you and stare out beyond the road.

A life all cleaned and gleaming, inviting.
Scented with gasoline, unable to keep
my fingernails clean from the grime
of this dead end regime, bring me back.
Undressed, regressed, let me retreat.

A foetus cleaned and gleaming, inviting
me to grow into a different mould.
In spite of my silent pleas
the amniotic bubble busted;
pushed out

years ago, in a ward cleaned and gleaming; inviting
birth. Agonised screams lulled to whimpers
through breaths of gas and air, dilated, elated:
emergence of my crown of hair.
Proud of what you’d made; could I have made you proud

with a brow all cleaned and gleaming, inviting
a mortar board; acceptance of a scroll
in a roll of honour? Years lumped into one,
pumped gas, goods stacked; a lifeless larder, cars pass,

a mirror-glass in shining red; I shine it all the harder.