My mother hated our house:
Big and empty
When night settled,
And the hallway ran from one end to the
Other.
There were never enough tables or chairs
Its smell contained the secret of endless hours
Of washing and scrubbing.
Ajax detergent after school at four o’clock
The floors were pulled apart
By callow children running.
Nothing nice ever lasted
And not a friend of hers entered.
All of this
And winter, winter, winter,
Besides.
She loathed it, as an
Anathema
And who could blame her.
The work was never done.
That last week
In the hospital
She tried to pull herself up.
Go home.