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“You slut,” he flung at her.
It was more than a hundred times
He had thrown it into her face
And by this time it meant nothing to her.
She said to herself upstairs sweeping,
“Clocks are to tell time with, pitchers
Hold milk, spoons dip out gravy, and a
Coffee pot keeps the respect of those
Who drink coffee—I am a woman whose
Husband gives her a kiss once for ten
Times he throws it in my face, ‘You slut.’
If I go to a small town and him along
Or if I go to a big city and him along.
What of it? Am I better off?” She swept
The upstairs and came downstairs to fix
Dinner for the family.
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