a million better things to do then what you tell me to do with the threat of a fine. there are names for people like you. a poem in four parts.

You mandate
that I clean
this
abode.

It's a bit sorry sad student-
like
our pitiful pockets
spilled out
to form that table
where we sit on the floor
and eat
our dinners.

the venetian blinds
are dust mites
bunnied out and filtering
the ski weather.

the oven
sits
a bit tinier than normal
and sits
and sits
worse than the smell in your pits.

I hate your mandate.
and I'm the clean one.