It was a habit, of most horrid things
To visit at night; this happened in day.
This pail will not empty itself.
This pail full of the rich man’s clothes;
They will not rub the dirt off themselves,
Rinse and rinse, along with the detergents.
They will not hang themselves on the line,
Even when they are all drained of water—
They will just sit there and wait;
Wait for you, Mama, to pick them up
And accord the same love they demand,
Stringing one up after another.
Watch out for the next part!
(Update)
The Hate You Feel (2/5): Mary, o’, Mary.
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Photo by Charl Folscher on Unsplash
Benie Writes 