sometimes a small
roaring, always a
steel rod for my back,
a papershredder for my
fingers, a meal of my
lips and cheeks (a
delicacy, dear), a pack
of cigarettes, a pot
of coffee, sleeplessness,
weight on my chest,
on my head.
there's cabbage in the floor, again
never was a real domesticated lady.
i tend not to notice the bits of filth
they hide from my restless eyes
as if trying to cause trouble.
the laundry aint folded, clean's in the basket
but the dirty's in the floor and i ain't got
a whole load just yet
the rugs ain't vaccuumed, cobwebs just
a'hangin, tiny dust-ropes in the corners.
my clothes are all stained torn and
too small - i had a kid since i got 'em.
things just ain't as easy as they
used to be, money's dryin up just like
them dishes i washed - every night.
i could not oil the machine
before i set it running
now i pour it in to no avail
its not quite siezed up yet
and the noise is terrific
but somehow i fear
its not gonna last.
a few days in production
is all i can hope for
i can't run it full tilt
as if it were new
the demand for the product
is not what it once was
we sit on the shelves
in the nostalgia section
it just doesn't move like it used to