art Henri Matisse
It's Woman's Work
He rushed past the threshold
With barely a glance back
No concern for his son’s lost shoe
Or his daughter’s missing “my little pony”
It’s woman’s work
And he need not bother
He works hard, he explained
But went to great pains
To catch a game
He was important, you know
Above menial chores
But he would soon learn
The cost of his absence
Could not be repaid,
Ever, amen
And the perpetual woman’s work
Came to an end, left undone
When the love dried up
Only a fool assumes she will forgive
Without appreciation for the little things she did
Like a kettle overboiled scalding his heart
The scar will remain long after she departs
Memory of her holding their son,
Or kissing a boo-boo,
Vivid and clear
Woman's work endeared
Many years later
The lonely man advises the younger,
"As you pass the threshold
Remember to glance back
For you never know
Which day will be your last"
Sharing a poem with you today. Dark self or someone real? You decide.
SHE DRESSED IN BLACK She dressed in black The scar on her cheek Was from an unknown attack. She laughed at my Pastel-colored shirt. Her baby talk and tattoos Incongruent with her smirk. As she lit her cigarette She asked me why I was so naïve. To think I could Break away From this Structure that was Destined to me. "Besides," she asked "Could you live without The luxury you’ve known?" She said, "Give me a call When you’re ready To go." Then she kicked at a stone With her Doc Marten toe. Her laughter fell flat On the side of the road. Her sarcasm Crawled beneath my skin And lingered... Daring me to begin.
image source: Photo by Abdiel Ibarra on Unsplash
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