She had a dancer's feet, elegant, witty.
We had our father's, maverick spreaders of dirt.

Dirt from London, dirt from Kent,
Mud, dust, grass, droppings, wetness, things,
Dirt barefaced, dirt sinking, dirt invisible.

Whatever it was, she was ready:
The rubber kneeler, clanking galvanised bucket,
The Lifebuoy, the hard hot water.

Let me! we'd say, meaning Hate to see you do this.
Too old. Too resentful. Besides, you'll blame us
That you had to do it.

She never yielded. We couldn't do it right,
Lacking her hatred of filth, her fine strong hands.

Don't want you to do this, she said Don't want you to have to.
Just remember this: love isn't sex
But the dreary things you do for the people you love.
Home is the girl's prison
The woman's workhouse, she said
Not me, she said. Shaw.

I do remember. I stand where she knelt.