She had thought the studio would keep itself; <br />no dust upon the furniture of love. <br />Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal, <br />the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears, <br />a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat <br />stalking the picturesque amusing mouse <br />had risen at his urging. <br />Not that at five each separate stair would writhe <br />under the milkman's tramp; that morning light <br />so coldly would delineate the scraps <br />of last night's cheese and three sepulchral bottles; <br />that on the kitchen shelf among the saucers <br />a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own--- <br />envoy from some village in the moldings . . . <br />Meanwhile, he, with a yawn, <br />sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard, <br />declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror, <br />rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes; <br />while she, jeered by the minor demons, <br />pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found <br />a towel to dust the table-top, <br />and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove. <br />By evening she was back in love again, <br />though not so wholly but throughout the night <br />she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming <br />like a relentless milkman up the stairs.<br /><br />Adrienne Rich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/living-in-sin/
