Neutral  Zone


1 a.m..
They are all in bed.
The floors are swept;
clothes washed,
dried,
closeted;
newspapers folded;
toys put away;
scraps thrown to the dog.

Standing in the kitchen,
I hear my family breathing.
Too full of resentment
to join their slumber,
I hang myself over the sink,
like a limp, wet rag;
waiting to sour.

I make sweet tea,
go to the recliner,
rest my eyes,
before drowning 
in the latest thriller.
Anything
to keep from thinking
about the new day
tomorrow.


Shirley Alexander
© 2002