Her Husband

Comes home dull with coal-dust deliberately

To grime the sink and foul towels and let her

Learn with scrubbing brush and scrubbing board

The stubborn character of money.

And let her learn through what kind of dust

He has earned his thirst and the right to quench it

And what sweat he has exchanged for his money

And the blood-weight of money. He’ll humble her

With new light on her obligations.

The fried, woody, chips, kept warm two hours in the oven,

Are only part of her answer.

Hearing the rest, he slams them to the fire back

And is away round the house-end singing

‘Come back to Sorrento’ in a voice

Of resounding corrugated iron.

Her back has bunched into a hump as an insult.

For they will have their rights.

Their jurors are to be assembled

From the little crumbs of soot. Their brief

Goes straight up to heaven and nothing more is heard of it.