this is saturday

I wake to the sound of footsteps
running one-two-one-two
soft sticky hands on my face
but I withdraw at the sight
I think about the taste of the apple
I am about to eat
like a horny teenager
I can’t wait

I move like maple syrup through
men bearded like hunters
eyes meet they linger or maybe
it was all in my head
wedding rings glint they glimmer they
give them away
I refocus my attention on frozen food
and produce and non-dairy

“She always wears Wayfarers”
thats what he told me at
poetry group yesterday
on Friday
he reads a poem inspired by my face
he assures; he continues:
“she takes off her top and
the sun makes love to her body”
he tells this to everyone
I recoil, embarrassed
I remember this and google him today
he exists on the internet
I’m impressed

Always at 9pm I clean the house
first I wash the dishes
and I finish with the living room
I reorient the rug and
put on my headphones
I dance with animal abandon to provocative
bass lines, to hip hop, sometimes to
electronic noise, sometimes
just to the lullaby
of ambulance sirens

I force myself to stop moving by
midnight I check on the
children they sleep deep
they look dead
I ponder the depths of my
depravity as I watch them
I stay up too late lost in the
bowels of youtube ignoring time
and space and the impending consequence
of a 5am curtain call