She was just a housewife,
Perfect at doing forgettable things.
I’d sneak to the living room
In the middle of the night

To watch her asleep on the sofa.
She was marooned there,
And I wanted to bring her back to where
She needed to be, but didn’t know how.

She was just a housewife who
I pitied the way I pity all housewives:
Their lives are forgotten as they spend
Their days making life easy for others.

I always looked down on housewives,
Especially when I came home
To find her napping and
Scrubbing the floors of her dreams.

But years after I left her house,
When I came back because she
Had a dustless room where I felt safe,
She spoke with the IQ of a prophet:

She told me what to do, and her plan
Had all the intricacies of a bank heist.
She taught me about the deepest motivations
Of others, and how to manipulate them

Without losing one’s goodness.
We sat in a parked car
In front of her impeccable house
When she revealed these secret truths.

The car was parked neatly next to
Her clean-cut, starlit lawn which
She had groomed patiently for years.
That’s when I said terrible words.

She told me not to say them.
Then said Is that how you really feel?
But with such understanding that I
Never looked down on housewives again.