Domestic Work 1937

 All week she's cleaned
someone else's house,
stared down her own face
in the shine of copper--
bottomed pots, polished
wood, toilets she'd pull
the lid to--that look saying

Let's make a change, girl.


But Sunday mornings are hers--
church clothes starched
and hanging, a record spinning
on the console, the whole house
dancing.
 She raises the shades,
washes the rooms in light,
buckets of water, Octagon soap.


Cleanliness is next to godliness .
.
.


Windows and doors flung wide,
curtains two-stepping
forward and back, neck bones
bumping in the pot, a choir
of clothes clapping on the line.


Nearer my God to Thee .
.
.


She beats time on the rugs,
blows dust from the broom
like dandelion spores, each one
a wish for something better.

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