Friday, April 02, 2004

An Ode to My Cleaning Lady:

Ave Maria, thou Queen of Tuesday cleaning,
Thou, whose unseen presence drives from my home
The dirt of a decadent life, full of noise but little meaning.

It is six hour boozy brunches, unheard of since Nero’s Rome
Lit fire while the fiddler played a song we no longer know,
That prevent me from cleaning my two-room pleasure dome.

A week of the Times, where they lie cold and grey,
Each like a plagued corpse left out the street, until
Thy mop, ruddy sister of the spring, shall sashay

O'er the hard wood floors and tiled toilet, and sweep
(and I’m sorry for all the wine bottles I leave behind with regularity)
Away another weeks worth of promises I shall never keep.

Ave Maria, I’ve left some clothes in the hall for your church charity,
Be sure they ask a good price for the loafers, which are vintage Gucci.