Musquash Sunday

On Monday, Marigold's sheets clunked in a Persil tide, To and fro, the mechanical arms of the washer Embracing their drowned sweat. On Tuesday, carbolic scrubbed the weekly stripes From her husband's collars. The ironing board arose On its wooden scaffold, to receive the marital laundry Morning winds had slapped away the wet. On Wednesday, sour floor clothes steeped in bleach Had whitened sooty hearth with grits of Vim Brasses were Brassoed, front door steps were scoured. On Thursday, Marigold lavender-polished the lino Newspapers scrunched on window panes, raised rainbows. On Friday, she baked tea cakes, made meat loaf Worm its way through a bloodied mincer Her Singer machine with its single metal tooth Devoured skirt hems, ploughed rows of thread on curtains. On Saturday, she fetched her groceries home, De-plumed a chicken, cleaned it like a whistle. Hair, kerbi-gripped in a net, week's chores over She plumped her flesh in the bath like a blanched onion. Pipe-cleaners clenched her curls for the Day of Rest. On Sunday, came the Seventh Day transformation Marigold's steps from drudge to glamour-puss: Peachy corsets moulding bust and waist. Sateen hooks and eyes, low-slung suspenders, Holding aloft sheer nylons, perfectly seamed. A string of cultured pearls at her lined throat, She slipped on court shoes, shimmied into her dress, Max Factored her nose, patted her well-pinked cheeks. The Coty lipstick, Rhapsody in Rouge Slid from its gold sheath like a crimson bullet. On went the rings, over the creamed knuckles And then, across the shoulders, a sparrow with Angels Wings, Her musquash coat (reward for a housewife's beavering) , Its mock mink pelts (some furrier'd made a killing) lined with silk. Marigold, in all glory, took the kirk by storm.