This burning house gradually strangles my sense of self
With no compassion for my health or general well being
It swirls around my head – knocking, talking nonsense
And yet I swipe the spiderless cobwebs religiously.

This place is filled with jaded sunlight and familiar jargon
Communication, a sign language of rearranged old furniture
Rehearsals, a constant reminder of my diminished role
And yet I am unable to resist the ritualistic bath scrub.

This room is filled with muted laughter and torn faced hilarity
Passing through the ever expanding vacuum in my head
It mocks my odd attempt at motherhood and wifeliness
And yet my passion for the mop refuses to subside.

These walls remain ungrateful for my undivided attention
My face graces the mirrors in every room and hallway now
My attempts at song and dance are treated with canine contempt
Yet we homing clones remain faithful to the trying tumble dryer.

The air in here seems heavy with imagination and creativity
Captive and bound with washing line and chamois leather alike
I write a letter in the dust but soon polish it clean away
Yet there is always a window at which others flaunt their freedom.

It’s black in here and blinding hot and baffling and squeaky clean
But lost in my dreams I cannot find an eager exit
I cry real tears but cannot dampen the wicked enthusiasm
Yet in my heart I am that old majestic bird – the phoenix gal!