I stare down into the sluggish green creek.
My eyes focus on faded beer cans,broken bottles,
And semi-shredded pampers.
My thoughts slide inevitably to bitterness,
To you, the husband I barely remember
Or understand wanting-----It's almost as if
You arrived from nowhere and attached yourself
To me as a leech, yet I know,
It was my choice.
Sometimes I feel no different
Than the bare-breasted tribal woman
On the picture stored in our attic.
Her children scattered in the yard like chickens
While a basket of berries rests behind her.
She stands vacant-eyed clutching an infant
As dust swirls around her naked toes.
My breasts are not bare
And this is the city,
Yet, it is on days like this,
When my babies are napping and you are away,
That our stolen lives seem much too close;
Unasked for children and housework.
My dreams are adrift like the garbage in the creek.
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Comments: 24
This is a well-written poem that tugs at the heartstrings. I doubt the low-rater even read it!
be well
I don't pay attention to the ratings. It is in the comments where you get authentic responses to your poem.
Another fabulous poem that many women would be able to identify with.
I like how seeing the ratings require an extra click since the last upgrade. It makes them easier to ignore.