On Strike
Of course the dishes are piled high,
teetering over the edges of the sink
and creeping onto the counter like
some kind of porcelain growth.
What do you expect when the muse calls
in its expectant tone- write me, you fool,
write because there can be nothing else,
and helplessly, I obey, I obey, I obey.
Are you really saying I must turn my head
toward the mundane? As if vacuum and dust rag
could ever speak to eternity, as if feeding
the cats could ever equate to feeding the soul.
I beg you to stay your harping commands,
put aside your dull domestic demands.
I must be free from the constraints of
rubber gloves, wash tubs, sponges and drains.
Leave me to my silent, mystical drifting,
my lifting myself above the earthly surfaces,
and allow me the quiet, dusty spaces of my mind-
a mire upon which to build a mighty legacy.
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