Ritual Poverty

Ritual Poverty

One spring morning downstairs in a frazzle

I sat on the sofa in the kitchen tiled in peach

by a man whose dream in life was to see his daughters

homeschooled and trained

above and beyond the dinner belles

who came before

and left afternoon delighting to the shadows

behind whom society lay

restless in weight

and

as I tied my shoes

chin on knee

surrounded within and without

a sense of self beyond the task at hand

one lace before the other

by the pressures of self so small as the fishtank unkempt

and the checks unwritten

and the mow unlawned and weeds unwed and children oh so loving left alone I had

a thought

or prehaps a feeling for the very first time

that maybe

by chance

this is the way things are supposed to be