She sabcos the floor with the babies on it
sitting amongst the saucepan lids and cake tins.
She moves them round as if sweeping them up
they love the ride and the ruckus
as she slides them across the floor until
a wet patch puts the brakes on.
Lids bang on pots as she
muscles her way through the chore.
It’s a happy tin can slum of a kitchen floor
the early prototype of a ball pit.
Soon they’ll go down for a sleep
when she can sit outside and roll
a ciggy, relax while hubby’s
at work greasing the Jesus cap
on the copter rotors at Hawkers then
drives home using the egg shell method
to survive the petrol shortage.
Later she’ll watch them sitting in the sandpit
like small loaves leavened by fresh air.
They are ripples under her skin
itchy and breathless for food
at the end of the day and
she’s almost unhinged with fatigue.
Her home is a tightly run ghetto of achievement.
She rings the bell at the end of another lap.
It’s not a record
but like every other day
it’s a personal best.