House-keeping or Homemaking

It may not look like much;

the filling, emptying, scrubbing

repetition of pots and pans,

of bowls and such

I have heard these walls

referred to as finger-print prisons

designated for women

of drudgery’s lowliest calls

The heaven of splattered,

everyday ordinaries

is often misunderstood

until its frame is shattered

We tread the gilded halls
of cracked linoleum,
of smile-smudged windows
and paint-chipped walls

I suppose if this were it;

plumping of cushions,

fluffing of beds and miles of laundry

I might concede a little bit

But, we are here, not to prove

our existence in halls of fame

As we keep house, we are making a home

for those we love

© Janet Martin