Site icon Wayne Underhill


By: Wayne Miles-Underhill

I look at my work reddened hands as I caress my face

haggard now from awakening at dawn, I know they need care.

A day that started with breakfast, getting the kids ready,

one for school, the other to daycare, an obligatory kiss for

my husband who, slice of toast in hand. roars out of the driveway

late again.

Driving, driving, too fast like life itself, trapped in the boxcar quest for some peace,

I hope the traffic is light.

I return dishes stacked up, frozen dinners again, don’t forget the fries Mom!

Their Dad arrives, late once more, good humor left long ago in his workplace,

a desultory peck on my cheek, “where’s something to eat?”

God if you exist, I’m so tired again. A bath that’s it, wait, more dishes, more spills,

get the kids into unmade beds?

No way! must teach them neatness.

He’s in our unmade bed, scrunched up pillow just high enough for tv watching.

I feel his hand touch my thigh. No! not tonight, my mind screams.

I have no erotic thoughts, only a wish for a dream or two.

I say, “no darling, not tonight, I’m so tired.”

But you are obligated, he says. I lie there while he takes

his gender entitlement.

I remember that I neglected to put lotion on my hands.

Maybe tomorrow.

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