I Shut Down and Die Each Night
I shut down and die each night.
I do not want to entertain anyone.
I do not want to hear my name.
I do not want to fix supper.
I shut down and die each night.
Spending my evening in my zippered zebra pajamas
And fluffy socks that do not have to match.
I pick up the remote and two I-pads and I sit in a stupor
Dead as the wall, the floor, the carpet, anything in the room.
I die the second I jump into my pajamas.
My phone goes off, and I am incognito, inaccessible, and dead.
My husband annoys me sometimes.
"Someone is calling you."
He used to answer my phone.
He has learned.
This is a dumb thing to do.
I will not be coaxed, coerced, or guilt-ed into anything I do
Not want to do.
I am dead, in my Lazy-Girl chair, clicking aimlessly through TV
shows I am not watching. I am dead to you, and me, and him
and everyone else. I die every night. It is how I can face the next day at work.
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