Who could I say this to?
To whom would I be willing to be a poor servant?
I love – and love heartily and willingly –
I will give as much as I have, as much as I can
But could I indenture myself to someone I love?
How about something?
I feel like a poor servant to Art.
I show up in my dirty maid’s dress and apron, coal dust under my nails
Hands raw from scrubbing and I say to Art,
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
And when art sends me to the scullery
To peel sacks of potatoes for its banquet
(to which I will not be invited)
I bow and say, “Of course. Right away.”
I will sit in that scullery,
A thin shawl wrapped around my shoulders,
Sliding peels into a bucket,
Feeling grateful for the work.
The Hamlet Project 