pit-stop

I am kind of failing life on a large scale.

There is really nothing left.
To give, share, hope for or desire.

Even an empty vessel still bears
the promise of usefulness.

Fulfillment.

But this is not empty, this is inside out.
But this is not empty. It is broke.

So broke, that even despair and grief elude me.
(Or bore me perhaps.)

To put it another way:
I don't care, that I don't care.

My husband and children have started
eyeing me warily.

Wondering when it is I will
begin aagain to tend to
the dusty corners of our life.

And I wonder too
when it will sink in

that even
bad mothers must
occasionally
make a meal or tidy-up

that even
lousy wives must
praise and cajole
tender egos

that even
talentless modern women must
march onward on the road
to self-discovery

that even
faithless Christians must
return to their knees
in humbled thanksgiving


but more than this
I wonder when
the tingling in my own brain
will go away

and give me some peace
and let me get back
to my mediocre ways.