This is the way we fulfill our destiny
between diapers and dishes,
fulfill our potential with unfinished fiction,
and clean the snot from children's noses,
and clean the chocolate from their faces
in between lines of poetry.
And this is the way we sit at the sandbox,
brush the sand off,
brush the dirt off,
and, in between, a paragraph of prose is produced,
and art is created in an atmosphere of reality,
and art is created amid dirt and yelling and daily demands
and not in an ivory tower,
and art is created in anger,
or; art is not created at all.
And this is destiny,
this is domesticity,
this is the way we wash the clothes
so early in the morning.