Ode to my Hoover Floormate

The kitchen tiles lay silent
and dark, all in a row,
the beauty of their whiteness
hidden far below.
Only two days past
I cleaned this floor,
but I don't hesitate.
The time has surely come for
My trusted Hoover Floormate.

With four boys in my house,
and sometimes the neighbor's daughter,
it seems I have to clean this floor
more often than I oughter.
But birthday cake crumbs
and muddy footprints
cannot remain on my tile
without me feeling sick inside,
my stomach filled with bile.

And so I get my lean machine,
filling it up with soap.
The sleek lines and feel of the handle
always fill me with such hope.
I switch it on to "dry pickup"
and suck the crumbs away,
much faster than a broom would be,
not one crumb gets away.

Then flipping the switch to "scrub,"
I watch as each and every tile
is lovingly polished and cleaned for me.
My face breaks into a smile.
Now one last step remains for me,
I must be quick in doing it,
for boys don't like clean tile floors,
and will do their best to ruin it.

I flip the switch to "wet pick up"
and squeegee my tile floor dry,
leaving nothing but a shine.
A tear comes to my eye,
Not because my floor is clean,
Though in front of me that is true,
But because while I worked, behind me,
Four boys came running through.
And much like a field of fresh white snow,
must be walked upon when seen,
Four sets of muddy footprints
prove there's no such thing as clean.