Coming Down a Peg

Here I crouch
Down on my knees
Who’d think that I
With five degrees
Would end up like this?
Scrubbing floors.
Cleaning vomit from the door?

Where my son’s friend
Has left his mark
When drunk as a skunk
And in the dark…
He says it was an accident.
He didn’t see where it all went…

And when I’ve finished my job here
There’s plenty more to do I fear.
What point those years of mental toil.
Of burning all that midnight oil?
Of all those letters
beneath my name?
When I’ve ended up
Just the same
As my poor gran.
She was a char.
I vowed unlike her,
I’d go far.
And I did so
For a spell.
I loved the job
But became unwell
So had to retire.
Now no longer
an academic reveller.
Ill health is lifetime’s
Greatest leveller. poem