The lady of the cleaners
doesn’t care.
She really doesn’t care.
She writes your fate
in a steamed inferno
and presses with despair.
Three pins in mouth—
Judas, Cassius, Brutus,—
she greets you low
and points with tail,
like Cerberus,
to where the stained
and spotted go.
“Come again,” she groans
in stitched and stapled tones.
“Ma non torno vivo alcun
s’i’odo il vero!”1
1“But no one returns from here alive, if what I hear is true!” Inferno
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