Tonight, my daughter calls
to say she can only clean her apartment
after a few glasses of wine.
Oh mercy, how this chore is often abhorred,
as she admits that yesterday’s
hairballs guard the corner near
the organic cleaning solution closet,
near her dog, alone all day.
My PETA girl whines, whimpers
and grumbles as she sips
grape juice from a long-stemmed glass
as she thumps to the beat of rock n’ roll:
as melodies blurt out
of a corner vintage jukebox.
She turns around and spots
her pouch proudly sipping
his own personal brew
from his brown bowl,
and then squats
for his evening business
with total disregard
for the discomfort
one more clean up brings to its master,
all in the name of a perfect home.