RIFKAH GOLDBERG

FROSTED WINDOWS Should she have frosted windows For them all or only in the salon? Should some of them be curtained Or dare she leave them free? Would I pay to block out The wonderful sunlight Swinging moods of weather To create anemic uniform light? Should she have larger kitchen cupboards To hide the cracked cups Drunk from the knocks of life And signs that people eat there? My eyes feed daily on my crooked shelf Weighed down by worthless jars and bottles My toys from many parts of the world No need to feel uncomfortable eating here Blinding gleam of self-cleaning stove Dish washers forlorn unless full with load Plants banished as a possible source of dirt No room for human mess and baggage My kitchen is always strewn with dishes In various states of dirtiness Green leaves run joyfully wild Vegetables poke through the rack unashamed Her bathroom tiles must not show the dirt Same goes for the sober shower curtain All the pipes must be concealed Must not leave water marks in the bath Patterns of mould adorn my white walls Coloured soaps lift the dirt and the soul Non-matching towels flow from flimsy hooks Inevitable rust begins to creep up my mirror Ample carpenter-made bedroom cupboard Sanctuary for past, present and future clothes Demure wall paper and a carpet to collect the dust Beds made for sinking all but nymphs A corner in my office for sleepless nights Clothes carelessly hung on the back of the door Overflowing with the trappings of my life Dust has plenty of choice of where to settle Your neatly compartmentalized rooms Where the light and heat are controlled Or my tortuous, confused and all too human muddle Where nothing falls automatically into place 1998