Cleansing

The smell of fresh baked bread
Clings to the baker's paling skin.
The fluttering birds think he is bread.
The soap does nothing.
His wife waiting at night in bed
Says he reeks of infidelity.
He cannot explain that it's only his niece's hugs.
The soap does nothing.

The nights with the carbon's black
Cling to the miner's weary hands.
His daughter doesn't want her friends to see him.
The soap does nothing.
The stoic manager behind the icy glass
Calls his money false.
He can't explain that the blackness is only in his hands.
The soap does nothing.

Somewhere in a little farm
A wife unsticks her husband's poisoned tongue.
The debts still blacken the helpless hands.
The soap does nothing.
The government with its endless funds
Cannot find the monocle that can look upon him.
The money is black, in the hungry jaws,
The soap does nothing.