Ash drifting to the cobblestones as her cigarette
burned down to bite at her perfectly stained fingers,
Fiona Lavry brushed a few stray hairs from her face,
the remains of a wilting mohawk, electric blue, spiked.
She never could clean the mold of those walls,
old and pockmarked by a thousand wars,
bombings from the last few, air raid sirens,
balls of iron, stone, and oil before that.
Always the mold persisted
in devouring every little piece of the city,
of the walls the angel of janitors
had assigned her to clean.
It had said not to worry,
this angel was decidedly androgynous
in its smudged grey jumpsuit and black hat,
mop perched on one shoulder,
not to worry about this particular wall,
all walls were dirty, and few of them
were metaphors for the souls
of the afflicted and cursed.
Even the angel of janitors,
such an immortal and timeless voicebox
for the will of some absent divinity,
didn't remember anything ever being
truly clean, truly perfect.
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