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