Domestic gods, tend day to day,
to recount inventory,
using keys, to keep thieves at bay,
such desperate normality,
defrost the freezer, clean the glass,
to earn on those days off,
else they’ll feel like a dirty ass,
worthless by their trough,
fill the fridge, to stock the fuel,
of a proud fleshling robot,
to do the deeds both kind and cruel,
it should not be forgot,
they look upon the overflow,
the flood of filthy washing,
that still has the sweat of a need to go,
activities that were quashing,
just like the haze of human life,
the drum starts it’s spinning,
whilst a song is heard, from proud housewife,
a clichéd scene, she’s winning,
though when the cycle has finished its course,
there is a clear reminder,
thus, frustration is reinforced,
such pride is now behind her,
as when the goddess, unravels,
there has been a miscount,
in trivial errs, emotions travel,
a high horse, she dismounts,
a tiny little mock,
reinserts her mortal quandary,
there always is an odd sock,
when doing the laundry.