(This is not me - it's just a poem I wrote a long time ago. See June 18 post.)
Dusting pain off a silent surface,
sweeping boredom out of the door,
sleeping when she should be waking,
picking, picking crumbs up off the floor.
Fluffing his pillow to lie closer to hers,
setting, then resetting the table,
straightning piles of paperbacks to escape
the dreams that became a child's fable.
Doing a half a load of his laundry,
crying when the damn toast is burnt,
seeking shelter in her pretty bottle,
mopping a clean floor as it it weren't.
Dancing alone across the shiny wood,
falling, shattering a hopeless bone,
stitching and binding to make it all right,
wondering why she's dancing alone.
Sprucing up the agony of years
with a brand new yellow curtain,
calling him in her screaming silent voice
but no one can hear her, she's certain.
Brushing the dog, someone to talk to,
another phone call to say he'll be late,
dinner's on the table, teddy's on the rug,
she'll be sleeping alone or she'll wait.
Ashes of love sprinkled at her feet,
brush them off before anyone can see.
The house is perfect, the day is done,
maybe one day she'll set herself free.