She had thought the studio would keep itself
No dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
The panes relieved of grime. A place of pears,
A piano with a persian shawl , a cat
Stalking the picturesque amusing mouse
Had risen at his urging .
Not that at five each separate stairs would writhe
Under the milkman’s tramp ; that morning light
So coldly would delineate the scraps
Of last night’s cheese nad three sepulchral bottles;
That on te kitchen shelf among the saucers
A pair of bottle eyes wold fix her own-
Envoy from some village in the moldings. . .
Meanwhile, he , with a yawn,
Sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,
Declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror
Rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;
While she , jeered by the minor demons,
Pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found
a towel to dust the table top ,
and let the coffee- pot boil over on the stove,
by evening she was back in love again
though not so wholly but throughout the night
she woke sometimes to fill the daylight coming
like a relentless milkman up the stairs
Adrienne Rich (b.
1929)
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