The Dyson

“James Dyson,” she moaned,
“Thou art a god.
Provider and Patron Saint
Of every housewife ever
To wipe sweat from her brow.”

The Dyson series,
(Grape, cherry, lemon,
Like a honeymoon in Vegas
Where the slots always hit jackpot.)
The triumvirate of clean superiority
Had thrust its way into her home
With all its pop art pizazz and multicolored machismo.
It dumped her matronly, brown and olive bags
Out on the curb next to the garbage can
And gave the veritable whoremaster among them,
The Kirby,
A personified kick in the groin.

Its adoration won, it celebrates
By whipping out its hose attachment
And charging up the stairwell,
Lightly powdered with Carpet Fresh.
Pulling at the rug, giving a thorough rub down,
It’s cyclone spins fevrishly and it sucks at everything.
Sucks at every string, thread, fiber.

A key rattles in the lock
Of the front door.
Husband Dearest is home.

“What did you do today?” he asks,
Appealing to her needs
In the hopes that she will do the same.

“I vacuumed the floor,” she replies,
“And I made chicken for dinner.”

“Carpet and chicken,” he tries to appear as though he’s musing.
She sees he is really just hinting.

“Sounds good to me,” she concedes.
He chases her playfully up the stairs,
She moves fast enough not to be questioned,
Slow enough to tell she’s got other things to contend with.
The carpet they tread upon still had guilty wheel tracks in it.

Just like the beginning, she’s once again high off the Summer Breeze.
The only difference is that this breeze came from a can.

And the Dyson hides under the stairs,
A sly paramour,
And listens to the footsteps overhead with a grin.

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