I've grown accustomed to the dust
for no more cleaning is a must.
I've grown accustomed to the haze that layers all my days –
on chairs, on stands; it's freed my hands
to do the things I want to do,
like reading books and writing poems.
There was a day when dust defamed me,
made me blush and justify.
Martha Stewart shamed me, stole my time and made me cry.
But I'm emancipated now, ecstatically I vow
I've made my peace with dust.

A noble woman, it is true,
from Mrs. Cleaver takes her cue.
She cleans and polishes all day. There's never any gray.
She scrubs, she shines,
she never whines.

But I have sacrificed this act.
You'll see my purpose is intact.
It is the season to surrender, and forgo this waste of time.
Celebrate my gender, and dismiss the rule of grime.
And so with holier intent,
this sacred duty meant
I give gloss up for Lent.