My family is oh, so busy, day and night.
They track their footprints on my wet floors,
They never pick up their clothes.
They even leave without closing the doors.
Mealtimes are hard to pin down,
For when the food is cooked, no ones around.
They say, "oh, I've already eaten",
I sit and eat alone, totally beaten.
Then I decide to pull out my paints.
With free time to spare, inspiration is ready.
I gesso a canvas, lay in the background.
Start the detail, keeping my hand steady.
The phone rings, the doorbell chimes,
I ignore them all, I have no time.
When in they come asking, "what's to eat"?
I answer them, "it's on the heat".
All of a sudden they want me to serve.
When it's out, they have some nerve.
An artist, who's a mother and a wife,
Has to deal with this kind of frustrating strife.
The inspiration goes a fleeting.
My palette dries, my creativity woes.
Duties, chores, chauvinistic minds.
Have drained all my artistic floes.
I clean my brushes, put everything away.
Until there's time another day.
Artists have studios, I now understand,
Without phones or doorbells, or hungry demands.
Copyright © 1999 G.O. Perri (Gloriajean O. Perri, Gloria Perri) 4/9/99