I crank up the volume, give a spin and caress my dancing partners wooden handle.

Careless whisper rings through my earbuds with each awkward step, as I belch out each line off key.

Bare toes tiptoe across the wet floor, forward and back, then side to side, stomping my feet to every beat.

The music dies and my arms raise the rag up high as the solo begins.

My hips swerve with my body as I perform my signature booty shake.

My feet slide across the floor as the screamer hits his frys, and I strike a pose with my mop mic.

I keep sliding, my legs go up and my body goes down, landing flat on my back.

I stare at the ceiling, counting the cobwebs I still need to clear, then move on to my air guitar solo, battling it out with the streaks on the linoleum floor.

The cleaning must go on.