Light begins to conquer darkness, and the lady wakes.
She doesn’t think of herself, only her obligations.

Will she have to buy grocery, or is the kitchen stocked?
What meals shall she prepare for the children?
Can the laundry wait, or must it be addressed?
And, what about cleaning; is the house spotless?
The bills must be paid; have any been overlooked?
What about tomorrow–clothes ready, lunches prepared?
Have too many leaves fallen in the back, the front?

But before then, she checks to make sure her children
Are not spending too much time using technology.
Each day the boys look more and more like their father,
The father who likes her nails painted and her toes pedicured,
The one who likes her hair soft, bouncy and curly,
Her man who cringes if she gains one pound.

He will soon be home to assess high expectations.
Lost Beloved will pat each boy on the head
And bestow a peck on her cheek.
Later, other pleasures without passion, he will seek.
Until then, she is expected to keep the children quiet.

All tasks have been completed and everyone’s asleep.
The sun has long since succumb to the darkness of night.
The children silently sleep, and their father snores.
The lady lies on her back, staring at the ceiling,
questioning tomorrow about whether or not
she will still be lonely.
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