Dichotomy

Cafe au lait
Cafe au lait (Photo credit: micamica)

She jokes online about convivial café au lait
as she sits in a corner sifting through the vestiges
of other people’s dreams,
hoping she can salvage at least one.

She’s an authoress, wordsmith,
four published titles to her name,
a battered, belittled, berated, former housewife,
with a crock pot full of hopes and dried beans.

She’s a self-assured sexpot scandalously belting out
“Te Amo” and “Take Me Home Tonight
from her ergonomic Mainstays, faux leather, on
casters.

Some call her mousy,
some moody,
some “Mommy!”

Some days she fantasizes of perching on a parapet
and letting it all go.

Some days she focuses on primping, and prepping,
and life on the go.

She’s a teacher, a fighter, a dreamer,
and over two thousand follow her randomness on
Twitter.

At night, she dreams of flying and falling
and breaking and being real
and alive and human again.

At night, she fantasizes about being the kind of girl
who can let her hair down and lie in bed at night
with her beloved discussing Dylan and Baudelaire,
no worries, no cares.

The pitter-patter of little feet,
the only attainable part of her American dream,
everything else falls apart,
shakes loose and burns
a hole in her heart
and her pocket and her dreams.

She’s a poet, a bard, a model citizen,
with dark circles under her eyes
and a plastered smile.

She laughs at this dichotomy,
heartily and emotive,
as she slices several selected cheeses
to be paired with tonight’s glass of wine,
a copy of the latest bodice-ripper awaits
by her garden tub
for later with dimmed lights and candles.

Come morning,
she’ll spring to life again
with comfortless café au lait.

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