The note

It isn’t I ...no it isn’t I!

It is the jostled image

Of someone I once knew.

Not long ago.

Just yesterday it seems

I dreamt of gothic spires

Transcending clouds

And libraries thick and dark

With painted domes

And names like Carlyle and Descartes

Now the only names I know

Are in the local grocery store

At night I lie awake

And listen to my husband snore.

Tomorrow I will take a lover

Daytime hard and undercover.

Once I counted stars

Now it’s pennies gray hairs

And the years I have left

When my daughter's twenty

I’ll be fifty

If I’m lucky

Which I am not

Tonight I'll write that note

and stick it in my house dress pocket

Or better still

I'll start a story

Of a woman in distress

But first I'll bake a cake

And do the laundry

These things they can not wait

Once I'm done

I'll take my leave

Go after all those haunting dreams

My feet are cold

My slippers worn

My soul is torn

Tonight I'll draw my will

Disown my life and all its dribble

Leave my dishrag to my husband

Now asleep in sheets of grace

Not a worry line upon his face

How he hoards his little kisses

Tasteless things inside my mouth

A consolation prize I can do without

Time to make the tea

Time to make the tea

Oh, where's the kettle?

Dear me, where is the kettle?