7.jpg)
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
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
