I am here being quiet.
Pretending to write.
And the woman
the woman who works for my husband
the woman below
thinks I am working, too.
She asks for little:
No time for lunch.
No time to pee.
Not even the coffee I make
that she loves.
She’s turning pages.
She hears me
shuffling back and forth across my floor.
Is this, she wonders, what writers do?
There are dishes to wash,
tulips to plant,
shirts to iron,
sheets to fold.
Onions to chop,
dogs to walk
pencils to sharpen
pennies to roll.
Those are real life,
not this:
placing irrelevant words on a page,
surrounded by white space
calling it work.
It’s the plunder of other's private parts.
A harvest of the things that hurt.
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