Poetry by
Gregory McIntyre

“The plates need scrubbing,” said my mother. “You can’t see the germs so you have to keep rubbing.” I ironed my clothes every night. She told me to do it or get out of her sight. I vacuumed my room every single day, Sometimes twice if she had her way. My teeth are a testament to her good sense; They impress my neighbour, chatting over the fence. I spent most of my life a ne’er-do-well, Trying not to step on mother’s eggshells.

Yet I was inside a box in my head— A perfect sanitary cube— It took me an age to grow tall and see That I didn’t have to clean things that were clean, or make poems rhyme if I didn’t bloody well feel like it.