Becoming Clean

By Marsha Ault

The author lives in Texas, USA

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poem about becoming clean

Soiled hands. Clinging grime and

dirt embedded beneath my nails.

I turn on the faucet, reach for soap,

and scrub, and scrub.

Frothy suds drip.

I rinse, lather again.

With a small brush I cleanse

the muck beneath my nails

until the water runs clear,

down, down the drain.

How good it feels

to be clean.