Simplicity

As a house maiden you waltzed;
the arms of a mop
encircled you.
But the fiddle stopped,
the ticking talked,
and you turned princess.

Your gown now blows
bright sunset kisses
in the ice December wind,
but the prince
has sliced his finger
on a stray glass shard
––again.

Put down the slipper
and run, Cinderella!
What fun is princessing the son
of a smoke-bearded king
when the clouds dim red?
Return
to the nibbled frock ––
and waltz the mop ––
with pride
instead.