It was the lye I feared most,
my own watery reaction
to his denials about women
who dropped the line
after my unsuspecting hello.
I had aimed on working
with coconut oil, buttermilk.
And was caught unprepared
in my old sundress by his
scalding grunts of honey.
She was lava-red hosiery,
brought to quick boil
by his stirring hands under cover
of the new Porsche;
I was simply walking the dog.
After the first-aid of tears,
I blended his clothes
with the lawn marguerites;
no further plans were made
to recycle scum.