Floor Spores

[Verse 1]
The bristles of the broom just hovering above the grey lino,
an inch from the dust my Nan said holds everyone I know.
It's 9 PM, the sun's a bruised plum under the Trellick Tower's spine,
the hallway light is buzzing out a sick, fluorescent line.
And every speck's a story, a flake of skin, a fleck of clay,
from my cousin's scuffed-up Reeboks he was wearing yesterday.
It's pollen from the buddleia that's choking out the drainpipe's mouth,
it's the concrete dust from level six, the ghosts of going south.

[Chorus]
She said "Don't you sweep the floor spores out after the day is dead."
An old wives' tale that rattles like a loose screw in my head.
This ain't egungun, it's just dirt that's clinging to the grout,
but I can't bring myself to be the one who sweeps the history out.

[Verse 2]
Remember Mr. Okoro, flat 19, the quiet man?
Left a pot of jollof on our step inside a biscuit pan.
His slippers shuffled on this floor, he probably dropped some grains of rice,
mixed in now with the glitter from my niece's birthday party ice.
It's a micro-archaeology, a catalogue of came-and-went,
the cost of living crisis tallied up in every cent of rent.
The handle on the broom is cold, it burns against my palm a bit,
a ley line in the linoleum, and I'm the fool guarding it.

[Chorus]
She said "Don't you sweep the floor spores out after the day is dead."
An old wives' tale that rattles like a loose screw in my head.
This ain't egungun, it's just dirt that's clinging to the grout,
but I can't bring myself to be the one who sweeps the history out.

[Bridge]
They talk of demolition, of regeneration's sleight of hand,
they'll scrub this place so clean you'll forget it was ever land.
They'll power-wash the memories, bleach away the names and dates,
and this little pile of nothing is the only thing that waits.

[Outro]
The broom drops from my fingers.
Tonight, the dust can stay.