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?

by what?

i'm thinking, but not writing. 

by whom?

by why?

observation still

inconclusive

subject dashes out the back door

trailed by a roadrunner plume of dust.