The paper towel king,
Mr. Clean,
and "lean on me."
M-I-O
made in the land of jokes.
A jester is void of all
felling of shame.

Quilted bounty;
we speak Protestant fluently
and try our best not to spill
the cranberries.
The Pilgrims invented
generic.

Tell me
if you agree
that white is like
purity:
a beautiful
and harmless thing
that must be kept clean.

The route to salvation,
like sterilization,
is ivory;
like piano keys,
but less cottony.

To destroy all sinful atrocities
in the Bible-belt Clorox sings
and steel wool stings
to the tune of a hymn
from the napkin factory.

The towel they used yesterday
to wipe the sweat
from Sister Terry's face
was patched together in a place
where privilege is determined by race;
and someone had to pick
the terry-cloth cotton.

Tell me
if you agree
that black is an
atrocity:
an evil
and disgusting thing
that must be scrubbed clean.

The record of a country
founded on hypocrisy
will never be
sanitary.
The lords and ladies of this nation and the consequential lives:
the manufacturers of name-brand
cleaning supplies
are holy, and Godly,
and church-going;
as it is labor that is
a dirty thing.

Soap will forever be
lathered onto a black face
to ease the minds
of the "superior" race
until they realize
their guilt can't be disguised
with lye.

Even the pearly gates,
guarded by saints,
only shine
when scrubbed
with a rag full of turpentine.
And when the cathedral's bells chime,
we will find
the true sinners:
the devout Christians
and plantation owners.