What about me? What is there to say?
Would a poem about me and my day,
satisfy this curiosity?
Fed cats, coffee coffee.
Sit to work and try to write, read instead.
Why as adults may we not go to bed,
in the middle of the day?
Cat thinks it’s okay.
The vacuum was clogged with a cat toy.
Washing machine just overflowed. Joy.
When I signed on as suburban housewife,
did I imagine this kind of life?
Client called. I did it wrong.
Can I make it deeper and brighter and twice as long?
Can I do it all for a song?
Dinner, dishes, shower, cats are fed.
Husband waiting for me in bed.
“How was your day, love?”
“It was perfect,” was all I said.