The Orchid Aide

A mop weeps in the corner of their Colombian-cleaned kitchen.

Tesco’s antibacterial eucalyptus liquid laments for the

Festival of the Flowers –

Abandoned for polished showers

And a high-rise Southwark tower;

Polluted by poverty.

London’s bureaucracy!

Tuesday arrives.

Crumbs of Kingsmill subsides

To the gentle sweep of a recycled cloth.

She drowns out residue beer froth

From the wine-stained sink,

Now a depressingly drab, rose-pink.

Her eyes,

Angel Amber Kiss Pansies,

Pirouette in Utopian unity.

This job guaranteed an equal opportunity.

A promise, she cannot see.

They’ve taken her key,

Discarded her as foreign debris –

Into London’s anti-immigrant aura;

Her visa was issued by

Pandora.

This myth circulated by our Home Secretary,

Of whom is confined to budgetary

Constraints of callous corruption.

The muse to their macaroon cream-coloured

Moth orchid,

Cries,

Under scrutinising skies.

A single inspection,

For pretentious perfection,

Overlooks her commitment

To Southwark’s weekly garbage collection.

Muscles moan in melancholy.

Her mind is gripped by misery

As her subsistence floats upon the sea,

To feed her faraway family.

She simply struggles to just be.

Yet, when she sings to their sleeping orchid,

Her courage counteracts life’s cruelty.

Time warps into a cosy realm of harmony,

Whereby she and everyone else feel free.

Temporarily.

They make her a cup of tea.