Underfoot

Morning breaks. She watches over
the roses with a squint of scorn,
then pulls the clothesline tight.
A grooved branch holds its weight.

And she pegs his shirts
by the side seams on the line.
Upside down – a distress signal.

Socks paired, then pegged.
Jeans, wrinkles flicked away
by the breeze. Clothes billow,
but the air is breathless.

The grass underfoot is hard.
Seashell-crisp. It’s the heat.
Makes everything hard.

Once she was young. A virgin.
And then she married. Twice.
She reads romance novels, but
finds nothing familiar in them.

She keeps house, raises children.
Double-pegs another shirt, and
in so many ways, she knows
she’s reached the end of the line.