A Fine Romance
She stumbles in the doorway,
basket balanced on one hip, stacked
to the gills with freshly washed and dried
sheets. A gust of wind blows in leaves across the kitchen
the draining board packed
with last evening’s pots and pans. On the table
remains of breakfast. Eggcups, eggshells, a half-drunk
mug of coffee. An electric bill, unread, she chucks in the bin.
Grabs the dustpan. Sweeps
half a dozen crumbs, ignores the rest. Hoover’s
crap. They’d get a new one but they’re strapped for cash.
Her world is shrinking day on day. More to life than this – surely?
Checks her watch.
Grabs a bottle from the shelf – pops a pill
washed down with a nip or two of gin. She’ll be fine
until tomorrow, then the whole bloody thing begins again.
Takes a stab at the ironing.
If she’s quick, one last drink before
the kids get home from school. Folds up her linen,
smells the essence of the wind – by now a world or two away.
Thinks she’s going half crazy
when she envies the sheets, pristine and perfect,
as gently she lays them in the drawer’s dark embrace.