Swept Away

Savor the eldritch irony you see:

A primitive broom, dull as drudgery

Transformed by magic secrets known to me

Into a flying steed that makes me free!

No snotty, wailing children to care for;

No stew to salt or stir or bread to coax

From flaccid dough into a metaphor

For money, which to me, seems like a hoax

After all, despite all my sweat and toil

I am as poor and powerless as dirt

My husband’s crude insults make my blood boil

But I must be sure he has a clean shirt

Now, as Samhain approaches with the fall

I soar above and, laughing, curse it all!