Shit needs to be managed,
so much stinking sewage
requiring a massive truck
with a fat-bellied-snake
hose blocking the road.
Repairs are underway,
requiring crews of men
with clipboards, and hard
hats, and big-assed pick-
ups blocking the road.
Such industry obstructs
my passage – none of it
relates to me, surely –
I travel this road with
singular focus – home.
Impatient, unwilling to
wait, I squeeze my pint-
sized ego past the block-
ades, risking disruption,
disrespecting caution.
I am, after all, entitled
to my own destination,
require rest and solace,
do not possess the energy
for other people’s agendas.
Am intimidated by brute
ability to roll up sleeves,
tackle any job no matter
how dirty, the balls it takes
to block the road at all.
I am polite society,
go with the flow, prefer
to remain anonymous,
blush at causing ripples,
shudder at inconsideration.
Relieved to arrive at my
humble abode, shed the
wheels, brush off road dust,
surrender to the harmony
of private sanctuary, startled
to find my pristine turf
littered with the leftovers
of past failures, a dumping
ground for undigested,
and rotting intentions.
My path is blocked by
the debris, obviously left
by some disgruntled ex-
wishing to violate my
perfection, an intruder.
Except I recognize the
pots, see my own hand
in cooking up the contents,
am forced to admit that
I am culpable, need to
own the shit that calls
for management, commit
to the repairs, roll up my
sleeves, and grow balls;
there is dirty work ahead.
One Woman's Quest 