Oh how I wish I could be free
from the sexist role of domesticity.
They all tell me
it is a sign of femininity, of growing up and puberty.

There is nothing remotely alluring or glamorous about it:
Scrubbing the floor with my arthritic knees,
trying to wipe off that stubborn stain and chocolate bit,
cleaning the baby poo off the furniture, checking the dog for fleas.

Then there are greasy dishes
and basket loads of soiled clothes to bleach,
clearing the fridge of sour milk and foul-smelling rotting fishes,
Cooking and serving up the food – one portion for each.

Running about with my hair in a mess,
shirt soaked through with sweat and grime.
I guess you could say I really impress
with my off-key rendition of household pantomime.