The Paper Towels
Two to wipe the counter,
one to wipe the door,
eight to clean the oven,
maybe ten to clean the floor,
three for each appliance,
(a little generous there)
but, hey, this is an estimate—
and three is pretty fair.
Ten to dust the woodwork,
tables, bookshelves, all
the knickknacks, frames
and pictures that are
hanging in the hall.
Say, fifty for the bathrooms—
they get a little spotty—
and just for kicks,
we’ll add on six
for wiping round the potty.
That adds up to ninety-nine:
you’d think that that would do it—
a quick once-over all
the house
each time she goes right through it.
But that is not the case, I’ve seen,
whene'er this lady comes to clean.
A hundred? Nay, three hundred more
paper towels depart this door.
One wonders how they disappear
and where they wander, far or near.
They flutter down the street, I guess,
and don’t clean up, but MAKE a mess.
Or maybe she’s developed
some monumental stash,
or sells them door to door each day
to gain some extra
cash.
Whatever her plan,
the result is, I’d bet,
my paper towel budget’s the national debt.
No comments:
Post a Comment