Sponge Life

It's ugly, yellow-green,

damp, smells of old soap.

Between my fingers, keen

to scrub, to find some hope.

It gives, then it takes.

The grit, the greasy film.

Every small mistake

it holds, right to the brim.

Squeeze it, hard and mean.

Brown water down the drain.

Clean, a little more clean,

ready for the stain.

And then it sits, just waits,

to be used up again.

Past its expiry dates,

full of what's been then.