And this too shall be cleaned
and this too shall be scrubbed, and scrubbed,
and wiped finally, as if one could
make a mark on this earth without having someone rub it off?
How well do you know this floor,
and this dirt, and the rags and rags of growing old
on your knees for someone else’s folly?
Sometimes I think I’d be better off
a wild woman in some frontier shack
fighting corn and weevils for a sack of meal.
Oh my flesh! My flesh fails me.
Is it this and nothing more? Oh if my daughter
could lose all ambition and just find time
to visit. Would work be worth it then?
Does affection pile up mirth or does mirth
give back affection? I do not know, nor pretend
to be any more useful than a mop,
seeking a spot on the floor to send into nothing.
I do tire easily these days. Outside the sun
slips beyond the teething city, all those buildings
going up and raising up a wealth of families.
What can I claim but the cleaning of many?
