Dirt

Being a woman of a certain age

frees me from societal expectations

and domestic obligations —

to cohabit instead of wed,

even if the world thinks I’m a hussy,

enjoying passionate sex in the middle of a day

like a harlot aided by Viagra,

To be free from the confines of a job

and blatantly ignorant supervisors,

released like a freed convict

without parole

with a stipend for basic needs,

To peruse trashy novels or erudite tomes,

unrestricted by the literary police

and narcissistic reviewers

who littered my mind with

pretentious vocabulary,

like zealots speaking in tongues,

To clean house when the urge strikes

seldom as that may be,

ignoring white gloved critics

and dictatorial relatives

monitoring my skills

like the domestic Gestapo

pouncing on dust bunnies and streaked mirrors,

Meddlers,

the lot of them

all dead and buried now

covered in

dirt

My final revenge

Sutera began her career as a psychiatric nurse, morphed into tax preparation, and ended in the legal and international departments of a health and beauty aid company. She belongs to several writing groups in Princeton and lives in Hamilton.