A working mother subdivides her soul,
despite rewards that build her feathered nest.
Demands conflict and guilt denies her rest;
vacation soon becomes her blinkered goal.
Some days that her employers don’t control,
a daze when nothing happens would be best,
in time all workday pressures she’ll divest
in favour of a more important role.

But aching to act motherly alone,
is ante-chambered by some needs: her own.
The vampire, Work, has drained vitality,
she fails faking fun so miserably,
her holidays are wasted in remorse.
It’s work, a mother wishes to divorce.


© 1990-2017 Denise Peterson Gurran

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