From mahogany meeting tables to force my hand and ruin my lunch
Ah, but doughnut freedom proves fleeting, for now the kitchen closet candy has found its voice
I'm at home, but weak all the same. The alto of Snickers is loud and the meek voice in my head
Croaks weakly, no, not another hunk of candy, points out the holly-jolly jiggle at my center
No co-conspirators, just me locked in a pathetic struggle over another chocolate break
No office, no half-assed shower at a downtown gym during lunch break
Frankly, not a whole lot of showering period. No one to impress, no longer coated in spit-up
Should I even bother? There’s always a chance that later on I’ll make it to the rec center
Squeeze in a quick stomp on a stairmaster to compensate for what happened again at lunch
Forced to consume peanut-butter crusts, extra chips, leftover pudding. Surely I will head
To the gym tomorrow if I don’t succeed at silencing this infernal internal voice
No office, no endless lineup of meaningless meetings everyone competing to get his voice
Heard while I calculate whether there is time enough for a quick breast pump break
To cower in a supply closet, guarding precious drops and hoping my head
Doesn’t get slammed by a spare ream of paper. Not anymore. No pressing need to button up
“Like Club Med on crack,” my husband muttered, when home for a brief lunch
He encountered this scene: shirtless babes, house a-wreck, a screaming nude (me) at its center
No office, no coworkers digging crampons into my nylons as they claw for the center
Of pinstriped attention. Nowadays the ladders aren’t figurative but plastic and my child's voice
Calls from the tippy-top, she perches, prepared to drop. On the ground I'm still unpacking lunch
While that damn alpha-mommy, lacy thong up her back strides to the top without a break
Without damage to hair or makeup or superiority complex. I watch, below, as she clamors up
to save my kid. I sit, judged, negligent, thong-free. Thong-mom shakes her disapproving head
No office, no blissful cup of quiet to transition my foggy morning head
No solitary jaunts to the bathroom. No flirting with the new guy at the copy center
No happy hours with cheap drinks and bad food and time with friends to play catch-up
No commute, no isolation within public chaos. No grimace for that guy with the loud cell voice
No cute suits, no new dresses for a presentation I won’t prepare for during a quick break
No glass of cabernet with an expense-account lunch
No office, no paycheck to validate my worth. I’m judged on the neatness of triangles at lunch
I’m crowded by small bodies snuggled in bed, not inconsiderate travelers’ elbows to my head
I receive hugs as daily reviews, especially when I wield glue lest something break
I get no sick days no vacation no validation and yet still, at the core at my very center
I am home. I have made my choice. And though some days I feel crazy and my voice
Shrieks STOP STOP STOP… don’t be fooled. I won’t negotiate. I would never give this up
So pour out milk for my coffee break, and grill up cheese for my lunch
It won’t be long before she grows up, so let me plant kisses on her sleeping head
I relish her position at the center of my world. I delight in the surprises in her voice
1 comment:
The end is so sweet. And your description of the commute, "isolation within public chaos" is so dead on.
I was able to visualize this sestina perfectly. Great descriptions.
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