I wash. I clean.
When the Lady of the House sends me off,
I scurry, but listen.
“What about your husband?” He asks,
his voice rough with something absent from my life for some time.
“Rafe doesn’t matter,” the Lady answers, husky herself,
“He’s dedicated to being in love.
“He’ll stay in a situation because he’s so forsworn.”
“Forsworn?” The man laughs. “Does he speak like that?”
“His word exactly.”
They are silent for a while, except for sighs,
and some sounds I believe I can still recognize.

Later, when the Master comes home,
he seems forlorn.
Forlorn and forsworn.
I take his coat as he asks after his wife.
“She is upstairs,” I explain. The man left over an hour ago.
“I’ll see you for dinner,” the Master says,
and launches up to the residences.

The Lady is right about the Master’s dedication.
Of course, I don’t know that he would remain dedicated,
should he find that he was being betrayed.
Am I the sort of servant that would betray their employer’s trust
by stating what happens behind closed doors?
I, too, feel forsworn.
What shall I do?

I dust. I clean.
I think.