I imagine the janitor in
my brain. He looks a lot like
me, maybe even more handsome,
but wears a light bluish gray jumpsuit
and he’s always a little grimy.
I imagine this little janitor mopping
and scrubbing his way through the
crevasses of my brain, cursing ever so
slightly under his breath at all the
graffiti on the walls.
There’s streamers and glitter,
discarded shoes, clothes and
beer bottles and shot glasses
littered across the many pathways
of my mind.
The little janitor, a blue collar guy,
punches in on Monday morning,
dreading the weekend mess he’ll
have to clean up, put back together,
make shiny and new, only to see it tarnished.
The pay is good through, free room
and board. He could invite his wife and
kids to live with him, if he had any. Too much
of a workaholic to ever make the time for a
My janitor, punches in and gets the
sawdust first, sprinkles it about the
drying vomit and various fluids spewed
about. He finds the bleaches and brushes
and goes about his chores.
He puts his headphones on,
He still has a Walkman cassette player,
with sounds of the 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s
to get him through the long days
of scrubbing and scraping. He dances a bit.
He’ll get the job done, even take pride
in it all. He’ll get home at night, put his
feet up, watch some TV, doze off and
do it all again, somehow happy and
without any real complaints.
Except for the glitter.
He hates the glitter.