Domesticity - Feb 11 2025

 

Domesticity
Feb 11 2025

I find comfort
in domesticity,
its mundane rituals
familiar ways.
Take refuge from the world
inside these walls.

The door closes behind me
like an airlock thudding shut,
and I can almost hear the high-pitched hiss
as it seals outside out.

I step from the cold white glare
of the street out front
into incandescent light,
its warm glow
giving my aching eyes
a welcome rest.

And instead of car exhaust
and diesel stench
home cooking fills the air,
its steamy warmth
and savoury scent
reassuring me I’m home.

I’m grateful for the quiet here.
For the easy chair
that belongs exactly where it is,
a cozy corner
in a cozy room
behind a door of solid wood.
Which may be badly worn
and sags where my bottom sits
but still invites me in,
still cushions
my weary bones
in its sunken lumpy foam.

And for the four sturdy walls
enclosing me,
strong enough
to keep the world at bay.
Or so they seem.
Never mind that all they are
is crumbly brick
roughly hammered 2 x 4s
and quarter-inch sheetrock,
tacked-up with shallow nails
and splitting where it’s taped.

I know things are going to hell,
that there’s terrible suffering
all over the world.
But in this small protected space
I forget;
fussing,
puttering about,
busying myself
with really nothing much.

Forget by taking comfort
in the usual daily chores
and perpetual to-do list,
humming a tune
when I’m not muttering under my breath
about life’s small annoyances
and unexpected blows.

Or at least forget for now
as we muddle about the kitchen
getting dinner on the table
and chatting about our day.
Or, more snappily
the proper way to dice
how long to sauté.

And when the glass slips, and shatters into shards,
leaving bits of shrapnel
like lethal daggers
scattered on the floor,
cursing sharply
as if there's someone in charge
who can actually hear.