Women come late

Women come late to the table.
We come late,
wiping our hands on the kitchen towel
pushing aside the baby’s toys
with one slippered foot

We sit down, already tired
and eat, often sparingly, full up from the task of preparation

Women pass on all their recipes and secrets
in the clutter of the kitchen,
to their friends, their daughter, their sons

We write our philosophies in dishpan soap bubbles
and hope the hungry listeners will remember
or benefit. We wait for everyone else to settle

And once the room has been cleared,
the dishes stacked
and everyone moved on,

Women sit down to our own lives
and hardly know where to begin.

© Stephanie Farrington