Weary

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.