Gross

Gross is the splash of cold water on a sleepy morning,
the sticky film that clings to a forgotten biscuit,
the sour tang of milk left too long in the fridge.

It is the rubbery smell of a lorry’s tyre after rain,
the sight of mould creeping up the bathroom tiles,
the sound of a snore that rattles the thin walls of a flat.

Yet gross can also be the honest laugh that bursts
when a mate slips on a banana skin in the park,
the grubby joy of digging in the garden soil,
the earthy reward of worms turning over the compost.

So we embrace the gross, the grimy, the gleeful mess,
for in its unpolished honesty we find a flavour
that no polished veneer could ever truly mimic.