Rubbermaid for your needs!
I melt at the sound of latex.
I can hardly talk about it
even in the confines of this poem.
I melt at the sound of latex
especially when she bends over
to hunt dust bunnies
under bed or sofa.
They're part of my plan.
The dust bunnies.
I've told them to be fruitful and multiply.
I pay them well.
Right now they're prepped,
ready, and getting antsy.
I know I should be flossing my teeth,
applying cologne, that sort of thing
but I keep fondling pairs of rubber gloves,
burping lids on leftover food containers.
I avoid vacuuming like the Swine Flu
so she has more to do,
more solutions to apply
to my many needs
staving off the maelstrom of depression
I am plunged into
every time her bright yellow cabriolet
with its magnetized sign -
Rubber Maid for Your Needs -
slowly eases out of my cul-de-sac.
