Laundry Day

You seem a bit too Monday for someone who used to sway with much colour Wake, my dear, the day awaits, And with it comes white shirts the colour of mud and black jeans the colour of white shirts for you to wring and squeeze and wring – it’s a Saturday Pick your shoulders up from the floor, square them to the toil, they will not shimmy today, they will not shimmy today – the song on the radio turned to headlines and breaking news, Leave that jive in your hips on the bed, I will keep it company Eight thirty is no time for you to be slumber still The kids need breakfast, the kids need bathing Run after the children, the kids need reprimanding the house needs cleaning, the dishes need cleaning Cook the food, the kitchen needs cleaning Nine thirty is no time for you to bring my first meal Let today, my dear, be your teaching That, amidst the caring you do for the babies, the cleaning, the cooking, the crying, the groceries, scraping the bathroom pot, turning whatever age you are, your domestic work in that house where that woman calls you “girl”, remember to remember, to not forget laundry day, dutiful wives never do And remember still, I like my beer cold In a hot bottle that does not burn my fingers. smile a little, it is hostile to engage me with your teeth in your pocket it is an act of war to let a wrinkle draw on my Saturday shirt