monday

at the sink,
standing in her work
clothes, with shoes
off, she takes her meal
from the microwave,
a bowl of soup, too hot
to hold, she spoons it
into her mouth. blowing
on the steam. it's dark
already. she pours
a glass of wine.
goes through her mail.
the day is done,
a bath, a book,
the dog goes out,
comes back in.
the television goes
on, then off.
she does a load
of laundry, carries
a basket up the stairs.
she sits on the couch
and folds. there was
something on her mind,
something she wanted
to say to someone,
but it's too late now,
nearly ten, it's lost.