I am the housewife’s
poet, I fear.
Well, what is greater
than refrigerator
mold for contemplation.
What work higher
than making
the home,
the place where we
return to gather
ourselves in again,
to continue.
The place where we
draw near each other,
cuddling too late
in our very warm
bed, where we
have struck a
compromise –
the comforter you like
in a cover I can
The place that is
our own, regardless
of deed,
with the photos
of our ancestors
on the chest,
the grandchild’s
drawing above your desk
and the cats curled up
in my rocking chair.