a woman's work is ever ongoing
she cooks, washes and does all hubby's mowing
the list of her daily duties quite long
she's never free from these demanding tasks
her days are as full as the fullest flasks
at no time is the housewife taking spells
every minute rings in requesting bells
few assist they're off singing an easy song
whereas the underpaid maid grinds tough stone
her hands worn down to barest possible bone
women carry tons of bricks a real heavy freight
not for one second will they idle or laze
they're running around in the busiest haze
by week's end they do feel a loading's weight

He presents what you see
with impeccable finesse.
He hides everything else behind the curtains.
Heavily veiled by his smiles...
Cleverly masked behind his script.

He stands elevated, taking his stage.
From his vantage he sees all.
He allows his facade to bask in the light...
Whilst keeping his back in the shadow.

He's renowned.
By the light that kills the dark.
He's addicted to the nightly ovations,
cascading cheers and gleaming reviews.

But every show has an end.
Come every dawn, he wakes to the reality
that tolls at his door.
He's owned and he knows it...
Too well,
by the stage he built
and the drama he wrote and casted.

Sometimes
I think I'll stop
writing...
that lasts
a moment or two

until

my thoughts begin to form
into some force that builds
until
it has no place to go
but
down my arm
      through my wrist
          into my fingers and
              out through their ends

into the pen
         flowing from it
            onto the page

in black ink or blue
          in pencil or green marker
               pink crayon or highlighter

onto backs of bills
           old letters or jagged-edged envelopes...

any empty spot looking lonely
            and in need of being stroked

my pen strokes it and coos to it
              giving it life, giving it meaning
                                                       (I hope)
                   making it a page in my book,
                        my scattered book that may

never be bound

do I want it to be?
or
do I want it free, floating, scattered to the wind

like black birds leaving a tree
              shooting out in all directions, writing
                   their book, their black ink making a deep
                       impression in the pale blue sky, cursive writing
                            with frills and dips and curves

watch how they move, how they write it all down
                 in the heavens for all to read like books on a library's
                    shelves holding themselves out, offering their very souls

to the loving hands of all who pass by, bound pages waiting to be freed
                  to fly across our minds like blackbirds across the sky,

writing
                        
a new page there

Are you just going to stand there and
Watch me peel this garlic, she asks.  
I shrug with a slight smile.  

Beer to my lips, and I catch her moving
The way a dancer does when she doesn't
Dance.

What is art?
This.
The juggling of seconds that contain

Something more than all of those
Without her.
We could be on a midsummer

Balcony in Venice, or
In a barley field in Provence, mid-
Kiss and laughing so soothingly the

Sun doesn't even feel like it takes.
Red skinned by sun-down, sipping
Local wine and asking ourselves

How the Hell life became so
Liveable. But she's in my kitchen, *not
Dancing across the worn down linoleum

With a freshly peeled piece of garlic in
Her hands, and I just found the key to
The treasure chest that contains

All the reasons I have to keep
Breathing instead of not
To.