She scrubbed the tile grout as if to undo something terrible

For she never spoke about certain abuse as a child, unforgettable

She often shouted, “this dirt will be the death of me”

Never stopping to think, cleaning was not some kind of deity

She uttered, “I was raised in utter, downright dirty terrain”

To where she could not bring her friends to this unsightly domain

For there were roaches on the wall & scum on the drinking glass

Which her parents didn’t seem to notice, not terribly high-class

In fact, her father, when she was a child, once made a hideous error

By placing glue in her privates as she screamed in sheer terror

For he kept the tube of glue and antibiotics close together

In his toolbox, in the closet, where it was a pitch-black endeavor

Indeed, her parents were somewhat primitive you may surmise

And lost their family in the Holocaust, which was to their demise

For her mother would sing and dance in one given moment

Which quickly changed to sadness and depressive torment

So, it wasn’t by mere chance that this lady had a cleaning ritual

Which tormented her family; for her moods were so conditional