She watches soaps all afternoon
rather than wash her hair, paint
her nails and primp for an affair.
She lies about in flannel nothings,
falls into the rhythm of the stories,
sublimating her desire for children,
which would require dating/lying
all that falderrol; she is a simple soul
wishing she had a houseful without
trying. One chapter in the daily
saga of love, life and fooling around
turns her inward remembering
a story too good to be true;
the mother who had so many
she didn't know what to do.