Thursday poem (if I haven't gone to bed yet, it's still Thursday, right?)

Anticipation
with a nod to Bertolt Brecht

She will grovel and fetch,
stay below stairs, behind doors
that she might swot power
from understanding this:
she wants everything
they have, Pirate Jenny reborn.

As she wipes their leavings
from tables, floors, walls,
under toilet seats; she lists
each grind behind her lids
in a second set of books,
where accounting lies

for opportunity to sail in
when she will number hours,
convict by actuation,
cull, prepared to be quick
or dead, there is no middle,
ground underfoot too long

she will rise hard, refined
in fury’s fire, made from
the slop of men, squeezed
into the bucket knowing
her rightful place awaits
she takes to mop again, soon.