Dust

Life is at ease now, so her heart asserts.
When things lie placed as she would have them lie;
And any minor disarrangement hurts
Almost as much as though a man should die.
She little dreams her husband, all the while.
Would rather she were dead and moths alive
Than have to see the neatness of her smile
Because a curtain or a rug survive.
If only she could care for something human
Instead of things upon her walls and floors!
No wonder that materials and woman
Have made him so material with whores!
But she is utterly secure from fluster.
Wiping his sins off with a feather-duster.