Maintenance Department

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

family.

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.