The dirty rag is wrung
Squeezed really hard
To let every drop of moisture out
And yet it holds on
Obstinately so
Inviting yet another round
Of merciless wringing.

And then it’s slapped
On to the dirt laden surface
That demands to be cleaned
Taking in more of the filth
That has already seeped in
To the essence of its being.

The surface lies clean
While the rag is tossed
Without a thought
Into the murky water.

The rag has always known
Its place under the sun –
The one time it was pristine
Was when it was spotlessly new
Ever since, it has been its bane
To mop up filth
And keep things clean
For filth belongs
Only in certain places
And the rag knows
It’s one of them.