I rattle on about how right to work will
undermine years of progress as you heat
the joint of a pipe under the sink,
so the solder will flow into it.
Our youngest daughter takes
the wrenches from your toolbox,
lines them up on the kitchen table
and tucks them in with dishcloths
and oven mitts. You don’t appreciate
the value of organized labor, collective
bargaining, the grievance process, you say:
Can you get out of my way, so I can get this done?
I think about how fourteen-year-old girls
died in Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire
as our daughter cradles your vise grip,
rocking its locking jaw its sharp teeth.
No Matter How Hard You Work
Growling stomachs grow impatient
for dinner warming on the stove top.
My husband spent eight hours
tinkering with machines
and five hanging sheetrock.
Now he holds our baby,
lets her pat dust from his hair,
soothes her teething woes with
blood blistered fingertip, as I set the table.
Once he asked me why
I don't write more love poems;I still don't understand what he meant.