Shirts, underwear, quickly pegged
to your clothesline like bugs to
a spider's web.
You and the overhead sun
are in connivance:
dry these suckers
and you're free to savage my skin.
You vacuum, you sweep,
you drop to your knees
on the orders of brush and bucket.
It's an obstacle course of dirt and grime,
and, despite being the only entrant,
you still finish first.
Then it's report to the kitchen,
transform the usual ugly vegetables,
slabs of bloody raw meat,
into the meal you used to be.