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Poem	“YOU slut,” he flung at her. It was more than a hundred times He had thrown it into her face And by this time it meant nothing to her. She said to herself upstairs sweeping, “Clocks are to tell time with, pitchers Hold milk, spoons dip out gravy, and a Coffee pot keeps the respect of those Who drink coffee—I am a woman whose Husband gives her a kiss once for ten Times he throws it in my face, ‘You slut.’ If I go to a small town and him along Or if I go to a big city and him along. What of it? Am I better off?” She swept The upstairs and came downstairs to fix Dinner for the family.
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