Hands smelling of Windex
I was using to clean caked plexiglass. 

We only clean when company comes,
some bigwig with hawk’s eyes ready

to see what’s been left.  My arm
going numb from the effort, reaching

above my head.  They pay me really well
coming in on a Sunday, a pittance

next to what they’d pay a cleaning service.
The grease gets into everything

so they break out the industrial-strength
to combat it.  Rubber gloves handed out

to keep the new stuff off your skin.
Spray and wipe, spray and wipe,

a little at a time, pulling up years
of filth, resulting in a streak-free shine

that will, despite my best efforts,
be gone by next week.