There was Burt in Atlantic City.
Susan at the window with lemons.
Oranges in the fridge.
These helped dispel her fear of headlines.
She could crochet with the best
dreaming herself a croupier -
a croupier with lemons.
She could accommodate the variety of strays
at the animal shelter - strays that had somehow
made their way to her kitchen table
and attached themselves to her pound cake.
Volunteering two nights a week
kept her in good stead
and good spirits for that matter.
Just ask the young man in the tight jeans
at the neighborhood liquor store.
Isn’t red wine good for the heart and soul?
Red wine and red sauce? she would ask herself.
Yes, there was the occasional dry, sleepless night -
Doesn’t everyone have them? -
but these were blogged into oblivion
dissected on her cutting board
in full view of the television crew outside her window
pestering to film A Typical Day in the Life of.
There were no typical days.
Every day, a first.
The trash disclosing new secrets.
Feeling this way need not be cause for despair
she'd heard on some late night talk show.
There are over-the-counter potions for everything
and yes she had sampled quite a few.
According to the AARP
mating in captivity sharpens one's erotic intelligence.
She imagined herself two standard deviations above the average.
Nervous excitement and mystery?
Keys to uncharted sanctums.
She took this as gospel.
She would accept her facial hair and crankiness
the blue days that stopped her in her tracks
the stiffness
the impatience
the general upset.
This is who she was
now and most likely forever.
There would no longer be a wrong time.
A wrong place.
No mistakes.
No waiting for the tapping at the window.
The opening of the door.
