The Road to Good Intentions

I am wearing denim.
I intend to fast, pray
and—most excellent of prayers—
finish ail my jobs today.
The toad jumps out of the rag bag.
He has ruby eyes
and is more handsome than princes.
“Leave!” I say.
He kisses me
and my hairpins fall to the floor.
He starts to open my blouse
and I dash for the stairs.
I vacuum them on the way up.
He runs his hand along my thigh.
I throw the scrub bucket over him.
While I make the beds
he threatens to die and stain the carpet green.
I let him out because
the floor cannot be scrubbed without that bucket.
The water smells of peonies.
He nibbles my ear;
my face turns to him
and I decide not to polish the woodwork.