Pork Chop Thursday Draft 4

The trill of a 5:45 wake up,
Sring shoes for four children under eight,
A missing button, and egg-carton traffic.
You no longer feel the hand down your pants
And radios wrinkle waves over news.
Printers jam and a pre-school nurse
rings of coughts, flus, and the sandbox.
Grocer's hands brush your breast
Because your check was $30 short, and his
Breath squinges in your ear like sliced beef.
Long division and alphabet songs
Wince as a tea kettle whispers
And plates pound the sink.
Prozac can't twinge your breats enough
Because your husband is fucking a 15 year old
And sometimes, cries her name instead.
Swirls of sweet tea, tap water and Budweiser;
Baked pork chops, stringed beans, corn and sulfur rolls;
Clicks of school days and accounting as corner dogs puddle.
Pirate ships ripple the bathroom walls,
And jammies slice sheets and switches after
Stories of bedtime mice and closets.
You creep to bed, your toes catching the hinge
Before pillows fall flat and you weave yourself
further away from him and his dreams.
Winking lights from the street seem
To glow outside your beige bedroom window,
But you only hear their silent plead.