A Day in Hell—That Cynical Paradise

During slow times at the shop, she likes
to read books and scribble

in her notebook. Chica is reading The Book
of Nightmares, but no one is interested in

what book she’s reading. It’s just odd to see
a tiny beautiful woman—in that space working—

let alone reading a book. They don’t read
books anyhow, unless they’re about sparkling

bloodsuckers in sports cars. She read those too. People

never say anything. It’s not like she has

her face sucked into the screen of some
handheld device
which glows. Shadows are where she stores her

slim volume of poetry, when a customer enters
the building. Everyone who walks in the door

must be greeted enthusiastically, with a warm smile,
within 30 seconds (you never know if it’s a secret

shopper). Some days there is no time for food
much less food for thought. After long days of no

time to do anything right she goes home. She’s never right
there. That’s a place where she’s never noticed,

no matter how hard she tries. Men are undressing her
all day with their eyes, yet she can stand

naked in front of her husband without him
so much as looking. Her home is breaking all

around her and has not time nor energy

to fix it. She looks at the man who owns
her. Indeed it is ownership,

her feelings are dictated to her, so she’s not even
allowed to be hurt that he doesn’t see.

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1 Comment

  1. Much has changed from when I first began reading your poetry…elements of life…changing like solar flares.


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