Scrub

Scrub
In morning light the kitchen sighs,
A sponge awash with sudsy skies,
It darts across the chipped‑blue tiles,
Whisking away the greasy miles.

The bristles knead the stubborn stain,
Like tiny soldiers on a plain,
Each circular, determined sweep,
A quiet war where dirt will sleep.

Beyond the sink, the bathroom’s loo,
A porcelain throne receives its due,
A loofah sighs, a gentle rub,
Polishing the porcelain grub.

Even the garden feels the touch,
A hedge trimmed low, a brush of such
That whispers through the lavender rows,
Leaving a scent where coolness glows.

So scrub — whether of pan or floor,
Of skin or soul, we ask for more:
A simple act, yet pure and bright,
That turns the dull to shining light.