I am on my knees on the bathmat
Scrubbing the toilet bowl
With Jif, “with microparticles.
For maximum cleaning and minimum scrubbing.”
Modest Jif, my labour- saving maid,
Standing in her stiff long dress.
I pay for her with cash,
And probably with all of living nature.
She can be a flirtatious lover
Playing the mixed message game:
“Unique creamy ingredients,” as well as
“If swallowed, remove from mouth.”
Then again her motherly low expectations
Protect me from exhaustion and perfectionism:
“Avoid prolonged rubbing on a single spot.”
Jif , my guru, is cleverer than I.
She “solves really tough cleaning problems.”
Was there ever a woman who solved problems
While kneeling, scrubbing the toilet bowl?
My problem today is the missing sock –
Tiny, black, with skeletons on it,
Rather than the Pacific gyre,
Microparticles in albatross chicks,
Or the volcano’s increasing fire.
Oh Jif, with your teasing language
So full of possibility and care,
Responsive to the gentlest squeeze,
Solve all my problems.
Think for me, please.