She collapses on the kitchen table as you enter the room.
Shoulders slumped like the rumpled corner of a bedsheet
one edge stretched too thin.
This is the mold her body shapes to each day
when the dishes are done
and the children are in their beds,
not asleep—not yet—still
pleading with the shadows
for one more drink
and one more book
and one more minute with the light on.
But she does not
have one more of anything to give.
Blurry-eyed and blinking at the clock,
she finds she’s worked too late and too long,
again.
Leaving her office
she turns the lock on the door
like a DJ turns a table on a raucous Saturday night
the moment the beat drops
and an unnatural silence is held in the tension of fingers.
Walking down the empty hallway
echoes her own vacancy.
