How Painful It Is, To Not Write

My life is measured out

In washing machine tings.

Sorting socks and stringy pants and orgies

Of cheap black nylon tights.

My life is measured out,

In meals cooked and eaten and

Not washed up by anyone

But me, because: food is disgusting.

I am awake,

For sixteen hours each day. Sometimes

More, because I listen in the night,

For babies long turned to teens.

My work is dull. And

I do it, to pay

The mortgage that never gets smaller.

My life is measured out

Talking to my mum on the phone,

Who’s a widow

Though none of us believe in this yet.

My husband loves me.

My daughters love me.

My friends and my family and my animals love me.

(I love them)

And yet I measure my life out.

And out.

To have something else to blame.