I bathe, I dress, I console and encourage its inhabitants.
The house is large, ancient and quiet as a morgue
Since the telephone rarely rings and there's never anyone at the door.
Silence is projected in the still-life on the shelf
Of lonely vased dead dried flowers whose palsied petals have shrivelled and falllen solftly to the floor.
So soft is the silence, the only stirring sounds above the stillness are:
The occasional soft-spoken utterances of its clumsy cane-borne occupants,
The scampering mice scathing across the floor just at suppertime,
The surging sounds of water as the soiled clothes are soaked, hand rung and rinsed,
The rude invasion of summer traffic noise through nearby shuttered window,
And the creaking of the cricket settled for summer under the creaking floor.
By early afternoon, I am home again to do my daily chores.
My house is small but modern. Its occupants are noisy.
The washer laves in cycles medium, large and small.
The dryer puffs its clouds of lint into the environment.
The cats are meowing at the door. The microwave is humming.
The ventilator of the stove joins in in the deafening roar.
The telephone is ringing its jingling melody.
The high-fi is belting out a tune.
There's someone at the door.
My mood is suited to the time of day.
In the morning at my quiet house, serenity prevails.
The arts are at my fingertips and I have time to think.
In the afternoon, the pace quickens in my stimulating house.
The exchange of conversation, of news through radio and T.V.
Enrich my extroverted qualities.
I find in my double life both stimulation and dedication
To these denizens inside both my houses which are worlds apart.
