Evening News, #206

If the woman
weren’t asleep, hadn’t
quit it already,
if work had not
beat her down, stole
her creativity
today and now, while
the night, that should be
time together is still early,
if she weren’t dragging
her ass through the door,
too tired to hold
her head on her shoulders,
keep her gaze
up, to hold open
her eyes, we might have
some alone time.

If the woman
hadn’t worked, left
at eight, back at seven,
more hours today
than work, any humane
company, should allow,
if the managers, those
in the charge of employees
of the shop were on top
of timecards, quality of life,
their job, they would
have spotted the blinking
red neon sign, lack of a lunch,
hours doing repetitive tasks,
overworked and thought
OSHA, occupational safety
or better, her well being
and sent her home punctually.

If all the deliveries,
the dudes in trucks
who bring stuff, came
on time and her helper,
saint and friend though he
may be didn’t need
a week’s off rest, time
to spend with his parents,
or someone had been
assigned, any of the many
staff, to assist in his
absence (how many
to change a bulb), then
my wife would be awake
at this still early hour
and smiling, bubbly
bouncing up and down
the living room,
gladly telling me about
how helpful everyone is,
what a well worked day
she had at such a great
company and how she
was glad it was her
chosen profession,
though now over.

To show her love
for me, not the company,
her hands would reach
out for me. In the brief
minutes awake, and when
they did, in my dulled
wisdom I would try
to banter and tease,
hold back her hands,
continue my online
fantasies, sloth
watching TV or playing
at some meaningless
card table, whatever
video game, foreign
or domestic highjacked
my attention. This
after my whole day
off. All day, sitting
and waiting while dramas
rolled on by, for my love
to arrive home, my one
true compatriot, lament
her inattendance at my
brief vacation day
and curse the millions
of reasons, all of them
right and worthy,
why she must stay away
bills, meaning, self-fulfillment.

Yet, when the moment arrives,
her car in the parking lot
and she walks through
the doorway, all
my lamentations null,
suddenly the policy,
devised mainly in theory
shifts to me, missing
my free-time, alone
with my thoughts. In
some odd twist of fate,
I recall the long
and wasted sunlight
and suddenly have
projects to complete.
In my drunk madness,
crying the whole time
from the inside, voices
of my younger,
dumber selves screaming
at the top of their lungs,
unbelieving anyone
from their future mindset
would pull back from
her forwardness.

Why, one might ask,
might a man, or he
who claims to be such,
and a romantic, writer,
poet, virile young lover,
or he who claims
to be such would
simply put his head
down and focus
on the minute
pursuit lurking before
him, the sitcom
in front of him?
No good reasoning
exists and so,
no explanation
will make sense.
Somewhere inside
himself he wants
to commit this night
to just hanging out,
to kicking it
with his friends,
old school. And the wife,
lover, woman he
married, married
in part, because
she is one of those
old friends too, perhaps
he thought, perhaps
they could just be friends
tonight, and then
tomorrow go back
to being lovers.

Why else would he
decide to turn tail
and hide, why else
would such a boy,
this dumb boy turn
away such a woman?
If not the sex
he was chasing then
the servitude. Do me
attitude that
demands more
that it inspires,
orders more than
it asks. He grasps at
the energy floating
by, the strange
collection of spores
that infect the mouth
and nose like allergies,
sneezing him
while a summer day
rolls by. What love,
what peace. The winter
season never brings
happy, calm thoughts.

But, in its defense,
it never begins
the bombing. In
the Middle East
bombers, those devout
enough to give
their life for acrimony
have an agenda.
Take life. Perhaps
the goal is not death
but water, and therefore,
it’s the desert to blame,
the sand and the mirage
of peace, the lies
of marriage, of deep
deep oceans, fresh
and clean, always
the right temperature.
Perhaps, if in her
seduction, she would
turn off the TV, fix
me a whiskey, get
me drunk, give me
something to drink,
perhaps then we
could have sex,
and without guilt
or sadness we could
both enjoy our brief
stolen time together,
and she could sleep.

Advertisements

Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s