field notes on the movements & hunting habits of the hired scrubber

instep rises with each elbow-heavy scrub — filthy mop across 
the grey — grey tiles underheel somehow wet and clean, the sap drying.
hidden in the bushes, field notes  
comments on the subject’s patience, its hand
work, sloppy, effective, paid, the years of 
cutting — subject puts its tongue to the flithy lips
of the shop’s slop bucket 
& sucks.
now, the subject, rocking on the balls of its feet — like a man waiting for a crocodile —
in the tacky grey grout, all gut & regret   passion extinguished by
by what?
i’m thinking, but not writing. 
by whom?
by why?
observation still
subject dashes out the back door
trailed by a roadrunner plume of dust.

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