tazmanian maids

you see the maids
come out of the car like
circus clowns in pink,
one by one, more than
you thought were in there.
each with a bucket,
a mop a broom.
they descend upon your
house like tazmanian devils.
the dirt and grime
being spun away into a nice
polish and shine.
no more dust, no more
stockings hanging
from the fan.
no shoes on the stove,
heels on the stairs,
pants on the floor.
the bags of trash go out
to the curb.
they make your bed,
scour the sinks, the tubs,
the toilets,
brush out the cobwebs,
pick up the wedges of lime.
they rake into a nice
pile, the watches
and ear rings, wine glasses
and bracelets from
under the bed, which you
tell them to help themselves,
take it all, none of it
is mine.