Corporate Cinderella on her knees,
communing with the grime-laden creases
where the wall meets the floor,
and her pride meets the end of its plummet.

The frayed toothbrush is her microphone,
projecting her displeasure to the warm soapy water.
Their audience is the oh-so-attentive mass
of vaguely floating dirt-debris.

Her knees speculate with stray puddle-drops,
lauchned by zealous fury (guess which one's
parcelled neatly under the civil-plastic wrap of the other).

Lips strain into a pseudo-smile,
fortifying her clenched-teeth wall
to hold back the projectiles
her thoughts vie to hurl.

There's hissing and spitting,
careening and exploding objects in her mind.
It merely serves to fuel her flagging arm
and pull her grimace-grin tighter.