A Slow Day
or: The Dull Life of a Housewife Deprived of Creative Expression
I heave in through the door,
drop three bags of grocery on the floor;
one rips and spills out
spaghetti sauce and beans.
I put it all away,
make a pot of tea.
The warmth steals
through my frozen innards,
while the chicken defrosts on the counter.
I glance at the paper,
toss it away,
pick up a cloth to clean,
stare at motes of dust
that whirl through the air
as though they had a purpose.
I lay the cloth on the dull surface
of the table and rub,
watch the vase and silk flowers
reflect up from the murk,
then my own face,
my hair,
my eyes.
I rub circles
onto the dark wood
hard and harder still,
until it shines like a treasure,
until the windows surpass Versailles,
until the bookshelves gleam,
the floor, the China closet,
until I am as dizzy as a dervish,
the room cleaner than a mountain lake.
When Martin asks how I spent my day,
I say I did the grocery shopping,
had a little tea,
got some cleaning done,
and dinner is on the table.
Ruth Gooley, a native of Venice, California, published her dissertation, The Image of the Kiss in French Renaissance Poetry, and has published poems in Mali Mirage, The Loyolan, Day Tonight Night Today, Pure Francis, Poecology, and The Red Poppy Review. She has forthcoming poems in Snowy Egret, vox poetica, Literary Fever, nibble, Common Sense 2, and Hobble Creek Review.
or: The Dull Life of a Housewife Deprived of Creative Expression
I heave in through the door,
drop three bags of grocery on the floor;
one rips and spills out
spaghetti sauce and beans.
I put it all away,
make a pot of tea.
The warmth steals
through my frozen innards,
while the chicken defrosts on the counter.
I glance at the paper,
toss it away,
pick up a cloth to clean,
stare at motes of dust
that whirl through the air
as though they had a purpose.
I lay the cloth on the dull surface
of the table and rub,
watch the vase and silk flowers
reflect up from the murk,
then my own face,
my hair,
my eyes.
I rub circles
onto the dark wood
hard and harder still,
until it shines like a treasure,
until the windows surpass Versailles,
until the bookshelves gleam,
the floor, the China closet,
until I am as dizzy as a dervish,
the room cleaner than a mountain lake.
When Martin asks how I spent my day,
I say I did the grocery shopping,
had a little tea,
got some cleaning done,
and dinner is on the table.
Ruth Gooley, a native of Venice, California, published her dissertation, The Image of the Kiss in French Renaissance Poetry, and has published poems in Mali Mirage, The Loyolan, Day Tonight Night Today, Pure Francis, Poecology, and The Red Poppy Review. She has forthcoming poems in Snowy Egret, vox poetica, Literary Fever, nibble, Common Sense 2, and Hobble Creek Review.
