I walked from task to task with no
memory.
It was better than work, but a lame
walking dream,
and now it's time to clean off a long
day's grime,
The stains and the stubble of twelve
hours' time.
I stand at the sink, half awake or
still dreaming.
It doesn't seem like my hands doing the
cleaning.
This thing could be sublime, and it
might just be weird,
But that guy in the mirror would look
better with a beard.
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