The Maid

How carefully I polish cracks
Each winding marble stair
All a facade that’s meant to hide
Stains in her underwear

Which counters the impeccably
Dressed woman she’s to be
Behind the doors of messy rooms
That only I can see

Papers, clothes strewn on the floor
As if by one deranged
I put each color coded
Alphabetically arranged

In massive walk in closets
To the space where they belong
And the stiffened towels washed
I dare not touch with tongs

And in the bathroom garbage piles
On top of which does rest
The countless negative results
Of her pregnancy tests

And in the den a stack of bills
To be filed or shredded
An accident yet I take in
The sad state of her credit

And in a strange turn of events
I tell her I did find
An earring on his bathroom floor
She says “that isn’t mine”

But steels herself then to complain
Of rings still in the tub
A spot of lint left on the floor
A toilet not well scrubbed

And so peers down her nose at me
That condescending look
Although perhaps that all will change
When I publish my book