Three Layer Cake

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout revisited.
An Ode to Shel Silverstein

Who takes the trash out in your home?

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out!*
My husband refused to do the same,
He felt he shouldn’t bear the blame.
Because I spend more time at home
He says that I should do it on my own.
He says he’ll chop the firewood into small logs
And wash and walk and groom the dogs,
He’ll sweep the stairs once in a while,
raking the leaves into one big pile.
He’ll beat the dust from all the doormats
And clean the barbecue and feed the cats.
He’ll offer to cook and grocery shop,
Vacuum the house and use the mop.

If taking out the trash were his chore
Garbage would accumulate on every floor.
Our dogs would get chicken bones stuck in their throats,
And oatmeal and jam would mat their coats.
The house would be filthy from the top down,
Littered with crumbs and coffee grounds.
The TV screen would be covered with grease,
Rancid yogurt and weeks-old cheese.
There’d be Bread crusts, olive pits, sinewy meat,
Eggshells and fruit peels under my feet.
I’d hold my nose and swat the flies
As garbage piled up in front of my eyes.
And even though I might scream and shout
He’d never ever take the garbage out.

I try to tell him of Sarah Stout’s fate,
Of how her garbage reached across the state.
How her neighbors moved and her house fell apart,
I tell him his laziness is breaking my heart.
Still he prefers to make the bed
And fold the clothes and iron instead.
He cleans the terraces and waters the plants,
Sprays around Raid to get rid of the ants…
But even for this stuff it’s like pulling teeth,
I’m lucky if he’ll do any chore once a week.
And after three years, no matter how often we clash,
I’m still the one stuck taking out the trash.