fourteen class hours
in three days. cold winter walk
to house of illness.
no breaks this weekend
as oldest tells project woes
(procrastination)
middle craves pancakes
but class again tomorrow
allows no bake time
(he’ll be up all night
holding a pail for baby
to give me this chance)
as it’s always been–
i work, work, work… he supports
(and we’re all winners)
three times last week lost
but i gave it one last try
and he finally came
this after new kids
weren’t told their schedules had changed
disrupting my class
this after failed quiz
that took half the class to start
on crap computers
after failed logins
on no less than five machines
forced copies, time lost
after failed group work
(new eval requirement
that i’ll never pass)
and pointless meeting
number one hundred fifteen
(equal to school days).
but… he came to lunch.
he redid, and passed, his quiz.
so this day is won.
reasons why i stopped:
one–brutal voice in writing,
uncensored anger
two–not much laughter,
too much crying to count
(my tear stained regrets)
three–exhausted sleep
from too many restless nights
swimming in nightmares
four–so much good lost
on the desire to numb,
to not fully live
five–waste of money
in times when we had little,
in times when we’re rich
six–lust and lack of
mediocre love-making
blurred by consumption
seven–fat belly
of someone too far along
to give up this quick
eight–every bad choice
i have made as an adult
came from that bottle
nine–joy i once felt
disappeared on icy rocks
of my lost chances
ten–my daughters’ eyes
watching every move i make
(and i’m making… them)
last night light flakes fell
to make a snow-bright morning
(soul slightly renewed)
i drove in silence
not able to think of words
that she’d understand
the unspoken sat
between us like the car crash
we saw just later
she spoke and screamed out
(firemen swarmed the panic
of woman on phone)
(i still had no words
nothing about the late night,
her sneaking downstairs)
(nothing on found phone
retrieved in secret to watch
the blossoms of lust)
just sadness, light flakes
falling from the winter sky
crashing our morning
so we said goodbye
(i gave her my hat and gloves.
she gave me a grin.)
(till midday flakes fell
then the sun burned all to mush
thoughts still unspoken)
another long night
(i’d never lecture this long)
yet my kids judge me
i teach how i learn:
modeling, demonstration,
then application
i plan; over plan
think things through with them in mind
everything for them
yet it doesn’t work
i’ve somehow lost touch with them
and–worse–with myself
i miss the old me
so confident, outspoken
not worried for loss
now i question all:
which kid hates me most, and why?
will i keep my job?
but the worst is dark:
why can’t i be nicer… loved?
why can’t i smile?
i’ll go on, of course–
house bought, girls in school, trap set–
but at what cost? loss?
the long walk to school
(meant to calm dreaded return)
backsplashed by moonlight
it lit my trapped way
to judgment i can’t escape
via teenage angst
then came home to lies.
sometimes life is like a cell:
the beginning, the end
yet, there is escape
small moments of truth and love
backsplashed by sunrise
second thoughts run deep
two hundred dollars later
and him always mad
my bestie takes blame
(her kitten was first, she claims)
but this is my fault
how deep does love run?
for my oldest: no-phone prize
for us all: pet love
sometimes i wonder
how hovering hurt runs deep
to pick our pockets
if i could keep her
(and keep his heart with me too)
we’d run through the depths
smallest singing songs
while middle child gets left
by lazy teacher
add to “redo” lunch
(they again ran out of food)
our grammar school blues
but there’s still music
in the lives of my children
when we arrive home
they play clapping games
chase grins on their way to bed
sing sorrows away
finally a break
monotony busts busy
cross-stitched piece by peace
of course, a bike ride
soaking in late autumn sun
that shines on Denver
laser tag trial
semi-wary girls: boy land
(we fight our way through)
tea, soup, spoon bread, love:
dinner stewing our return
(housewifery week)
end with beginning:
angel bear guarding baby
waiting to come out
another rushed night
such is double income life
no time, bit more cash
menu broken down:
grass-fed beef, onions, cabbage
(and fridge-popped biscuits)
yes, life has become
hydrogenated oil
and jarred minced garlic
because you can’t win
(either work to death or cheat)
without Pillsbury
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