Originally excerpted in 1972 from the unreleased collection, Why Do I Have Corns On My Feet?
This is the way it is without music Stale dishwater—untechnicolored Rich in the recommended calories And the not so recommended grease Whose stagnant inactivity Leaves a ten hour old tidal mark Around the half-emersed pile Of breakfast dishes The floor—two days away from its last scrubbing Ready for another Pajamas that nobody had time to hang up Laying in any place but the right place And dust everywhere! You know it. But since the daylight reveals it best And you only see the place by light bulb Until the weekend rolls around The dust can stay This is it Mariah Plus you standing there Watching the roaches you’ve tried everything to get rid of Run from the sudden light With a bag full of groceries on one arm Plus the youngest one on the other arm You’re too tired to talk But you talk anyway Too occupied with strategy To accomplish another day’s work To listen But you listen Give answers—the recommended ones in The ladies journals Save your child from a neurosis Give it love Never, never scream at it Give it love Invert your desperation Give it love love love! What is your love Mariah? It is not like the ones in the TV shows Not like the movies Nor the stories with the "Happy-ever-after" endings But There is a rhythm to which you move A melody your stir And this is it: Heat some water if there is none hot Wash a dish—fill up a pot Set it on the stove—pick up a book Trash day’s tomorrow—tie the bundle while you cook Bandage Johnny’s finger with love love love Answer his question, "Why is God up above, Why isn’t he down here—We need him so If heaven’s so good, why don’t we go?" Wash a few more dishes—set them on the table Give the floor a few licks and a promise If you’re able You’ll finish the dirty rest Tomorrow What is tomorrow to you Mariah? Tomorrow is the day you give Your involuntary promise to It’s the seven o’clock rush to the nursery And the car card ads that won’t let You read anything else but them And the time clock Tomorrow is your double shift—done on half-time pay A full day on the Job and another at home Tomorrow is the smell of Johnny’s urine on you From rushing him so fast to the nursery It is you trying t© look like a "million dollar a year” Stage star—On three bucks worth of cosmetics It is you trying to present a vision—a dream Of what you once looked like to your man Tomorrow is the problems of the woman who works next to you It is the deep courageous laughter at abandoned dreams And it is more than that It is the I-can-get-another-”girly look In your boss’ eyes When you ask for time off—"Again?”— To take Sally to the clinic Tomorrow is you wondering How big do women grow where he comes from? How strong—how enduring? Tomorrow is whether there are enough eggs in the house For breakfast And clean clothes enough to go around It is the day that comes Just as you lie down Before the knots are untied The body refreshed It is the"other woman” your husband wonders about When he can’t arouse you for love talk and sex It’s the exhaustion you slept with And the outlook for the next night’s same companion It is you being the”little woman” again To friends your husband brings in For card games and joking and beer And it is dirty glasses afterwards—and ash trays It is resolution and resolve to do more the next day It is you trying to make ends meet that never have met yet It is a mere seventh of your eighty hour work week It is your music that is not yet called music
