Mrs. Frumple, 1B
Electric lights glow glum.
We are in the rear, dark from
two o'clock on. The air out back
is gray, stuffed, thick,
a mattress. The screens
alone keep it out.
I am fated to wash and fry,
wash and fry. When I die,
mourners will come
with lint and breadcrumbs.
When the sponges wince,
I throw them out.
When my feet get stuck
in the buckets,
I take them to the curb
with the rest of the garbage.