Mrs. Carolina spent most of her days
in the valiant deification and praise
of sanitation. The very elation
of wiring up the Eureka,
stopping to seek a
just-right attachment, a match meant
for heaven, yes sir.
And then the whirr,
like a purring cat, stirring that
sanctified feeling in her
that will occur
when she cleaning, leaning
her toward contentment
and resentment
of those who don’t see dirt, who hurt
the balance of things
with bathtup rings
and lint on the sheets. “Beats
being deadbeats, ” she purrs.
“Dust bunnies and cockleburs
make me ill. I will
not yield to the filth of the world, ”
she said as she twirled
around the floor,
waltzing with her upright gentleman,
Eureka.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem