Armed with baby bottles, trusty diaper bag at her feet
the June Cleaver clone seasons soup with zoloft.
(War-paint and red lipstick match perfectly with ritalin.)
Her mister enters, relieved to find dinner and a comfy chair.
His mind, too full to notice the tremor in her dainty hands.
His eyes, too focused elsewhere to notice her teeth are bared.
He finds her ordinary and smiling.

Excusing herself to freshen up, he relaxes,
massaging aching feet, while water spills on the floor,
in the bathroom she decorated in blood-red flowers.


One thought on “Flowers

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