A poem from another city.

Hoovering

Someone has to do it, but only she proves the rule
in her striplit first-floor office with a perfect view
of York Minster. She wears a navy pinny, does not glance
up, avoids the window and contemplation.

Or perhaps she has had her fill of the history
that must follow on from this; she is more in awe
of the technology for suction than the brick on brick
that brought God to such a city. I think I caught her once
sweeping the wide stone floors inside, walking backwards,
her navy pinny next to lime green and golden robes. I looked again,
and though the floor was clean, she'd left no trace.