The Working Woman part one and two are a poetic play on words and meanings that carry two storylines with two interpretations each individually. Throughout each separate piece, there is yet synergy as a whole in its theme. I could go into depth explaining the cultural relationship between the themes and meanings for both parts but half the fun is discovering all the intricacies yourself.
The Quagmire Chef
I once cooked with a man
who was a barney bloke.
In a fix, rhubarb jam
was his master stroke.
In his hashery, this chap
made quite a brannigan starter
with leftovers and a scrap
he stirred up in hot water.
He would wrangle a beef
and broil it in a brabble
to cook up a soup of grief
with sides of pribble and prabble.
He could pickle a sol, (sole and soul pronunciation with a line above the O, I don’t know how to type it.)
stir up a pot of ruckus
with deep water in a hole
and a box of fracas.
With a recipe to mix it up
In his trattoria of tiff,
he contrived to fix us up
in his cook shop of miff.
He was a quagmire chef.
He thought I, his next chef d’oevre,
But his embroilment I left
with a clean plate and none left over.
The Box Factory
I once was apprenticed to a prizefighter.
My life, demarcate, in a finite blur.
By a box of terms, I was obliged to serve
inside a box, behind the curve,
in a corner marked by anger, a term of discord
in a match of no match and no record to record.
My contender was a boxer, containment, his art.
With the ring, I was boxed in by my counterpart.
Attack was his defense, fisticuffs his sport.
To strike out at this contract binding
could not weaken the agreement’s finding.
Nor could it lessen the quantity
or length of time to disagree.
In an embroilment of pugilism
bound by walls of altruism,
I was sequestered to remain
with no prize fighting prize to gain.
With no desire for clenched fists
to box or cuff, but to desist.
To open the box takes an open hand
an open mind and a brave heart to stand
on two feet and walk out
before the final blow and life’s knockout.