Purpose of Treasure

There is a treasure here in our house,
Stashed behind the secret panel in the library,
A pirate's chest of emeralds and gold and lapis lazuli,
Moldering in the dust.

I stumbled upon this trove
Quite by accident one winter afternoon
When no one was looking
And I was trying to escape the other roomers --
The carping housekeepers,
Which is all that women know how to be,
And the self-important masters,
The men of the house.

The owners of the treasure -
Popes, Tibetans, geniuses, and grandmothers -
Are off on their busy-nesses,
Making descriptions in praise of jewels,
Drawing plans and hiding their tracks,
Obscuring treasure in the name of protection.

I do not follow their labyrinths,
Having a distaste for narrow corridors and
Precipitous steps
When the simple flick of a switch
Swings wide the wall
And reveals jewels bare at my feet.
What is all the fuss about?

I tried to make a appointment with the Pope
And was ignored.
I made myself available to geniuses
But could not be understood.
I prostrated to Tibetans
But they only pointed at me.

The housekeepers gossip behind my back
And never make the beds.
The masters are never here.

These jewels could buy a hundred houses,
And a home for everyone in them.
But our house has a lien on it,
And we are buried in wealth.

- Sally Clay
September 8, 1989

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