I Don't Do That Any More:

There's another poem by Mary Fons I like.  It's called Adder. What I like is the emotion, the anger, and the pain:

The restoration has been a significant undertaking.
Every detail - engineered.
Housecleaning efforts, painstaking.
Tiles scrubbed back down to rubble,
carpets beat out with muscle.
Shadowy corners since been lit.
I have hemmed up my own skirt,
I have sown up my own lip.
He doesn't believe it went down like that, for a girl like me, or maybe he just doesn't care.
But it did. I remember. I was there.
I could tell you of quiet courage amidst danger.
How each day I breathe, I am winning the war.
I could explain myself.
But I don't do that anymore.