Surface of a Rhyme
You pull into the drive and the free spirit
I’ve exercised all day folds, abruptly, into itself.
I greet you at the door with a pasted smile.
Ask how your day was, expecting no reply yet,
Feeling the sting when I get none.
Supper is served. You take yours into the
Living room, plopping yourself on the couch,
Balancing the plate and the remote with the finesse
Of a kerbside juggler.
I remain at the table, staring at you, staring at the TV,
Staring at you staring at the TV.
A crooked rhyme plays in my head,
Nobody likes me, everybody hates me.
by Betty Bleen