Rose drove her husband’s rubbish truck, wore overalls and boots.
‘Half bloody man!’ her critics sneered. ‘Imagine HER in bed!’
How quickly we clothe others with personas off-the-rack.
Investing entire nations with a garment ready-made.
At home, out of those overalls, a Rose most did not see.
All woman, comely, sensitive, artistic, dutiful.
And motherly, the children neat and clean in things she’d made.
Their furnishings were spartan but she made that house a home.
Steve’s real wife cleared their bank account and moved, address unknown,
Leaving Steve with pre-school kids and debts that she’d run up.
So Rose came in, housekeeper, with a breakdown of her own,
Escaping violence, distancing herself from threats of more.
Quite soon she added to her duties, ( Can we caste a stone?)
Becoming mother, bed-mate, his off-sider, kept the purse.
Under her care the debts and overdraft were whittled down.
The truck paid off, the thought of their own home made feasible.
Not good enough it seemed as more and more Rose failed to please.
Familiar road this. Soon close to collapse, Steve all contrite,
Insisted that she take a break. He’d cope. On her return,
No Steve, no kids, no furniture. He’d made up with his wife.