If I had to pick one chore,
The one which is such a bore,
I do it only if  I must,
It is then I have to dust.

It flies up and makes me sneeze,
Creates havoc in even a gentle breeze,
The simple tools then I do muster,
A damp cloth and feather duster.

I swipe, I whisk and rub them down,
The shelves and the molding crown,
Those tiny figurines of glass,
Ceramic pots and things of brass.

Moving on to my beloved books,
Which occupy every cranny and nook,
I take a break to visit a tale,
And in my chore completely fail.

Task postponed to another day,
Letting dust gather while it may,
Forgone a battle with dust to wage,
Adventure awaits on the next page.