sometimes, i think there's nothing better
than to come home stripped down, nerve-fried,
wanting nothing more than a hot bath, or
the urge to hold the fridge door open wide.
you lose, for a moment, your talent to fix
the broken window, the friendship gone awry.
you want to eat, goddammit, or sleep,
or close your mouth around your thumb and cry.
you hurt all over - the neck, the feet, your heart,
tonight you are done in, too far gone, expired.
forget the mail, the dirt, the gilded guilts.
enough of that charade. you're just bone-tired.
it was this - all that thinking. your big head
wrapping itself around too much at once. poor
thing, you outdid yourself, drove too long,
ignored each timid thirst squeaking from your core.
now all you want is silence, something vanilla-scented,
inoffensive, neutral, a mild accompaniment to the beating
of your own wildly palpitating heart. your body has been doing
all this work, whinnying its complaints, overheating.
ignore the viral ringing of the telephone.
unwrap those legs from overbelted pants.
forgive yourself of all your monstrous wants.