Like Cindy, But More So

Like the “Lost In Space” robot,
short circuited,
arms flailing,
I am confused.
Tight-chested,
my lungs are so tense
that the air won’t
come.

Feeling like the 21st-century, female version of Atlas,
overwhelmed,
yet simultaneously underwhelmed,
I am tired.
Reality hasn’t met expectations,
but when do they,
ever.

Desiring to be special,
a treasure,
someone’s beauty,
like a well-worn baseball glove or
a coveted pair of pumps,
flats—shoes of any kind really—
I am not.

Like the fabled Cinderella,
cleaning, laundry, shopping, cooking, dishes
some more laundry, yard work….
and if Cindy had kids, add in disciplining.
I am Mom.

(written winter 1996, never published anywhere until now.)