Writing Life


I’m a woman I’ve no time to write

I’m a woman, at the best of times

My writings squeezed between the pots and pans

The hungry mouths, the dust and grime

The carrots and asparagus

Or are all these chores just part of the alphabet

With which I write this poem


If I was rich and had a maid

I know I wouldn’t sit at my desk all day

These walls, these people are my life

A little toil, a little strife

Are fodder for this poem I write

Of pots and pans and dust and grime

Write of what you know they say

So, here, I wrote this poem today




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