Question: What is the meaning of life?
“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.