Nihilism for the Modern Homemaker

I am pretty much nihilistic;
tea never stays hot once poured,
and its steam causes the ceiling to mold.
The maintenance of metaphors is tiresome;
why do laundry when clothes only get dirty again?
The same could be said of myself I think.
What point is there to bathing a boy who runs away
for the purpose of getting filthy again?
I live for others to exact labor on me;
the dishes pile up in the sink, the husband has affairs,
baking soda and vinegar never get another woman out
of the laundry that runs away to a sordid motel room,
and no detergent cuts the grease, the smoke, the smell of my boy
coming home late; sometimes bile and blood never wash out.
The labor they exact on me is hard; my hands are scabbed and dry;
but why do I work anyway?
I can sweep, but the dust will fall in the same pattern, halos and wings
making rings where I lay as a child.
I can mop, but the mud and caked dirt and broken dishes will come back the next day.
I can bandage my finger, but next meal will cut me apart again,
tear me up into little bitty pieces and throw me down the drain.
But the labor I exact on myself is worse: it is the hard work of dreaming
and it drives me mad.