The Full Time Job

she was a full time job.
twenty four seven.
open all night, all day.
holidays too.
there was no break from
her.
every moment was walking
on eggshells, fearing the worst,
keeping her placated,
putting out her emotional fires,
waving at the smoke alarm.
every word spoken could cause
a three day irrational
explosion. a word, a glance,
a wink, a nod, a rolling
of the eyes.
she was a time bomb ticking.
everyone in the room tried
to keep her calm, keep
her happy, which was impossible,
happy was a place she never
knew, and a place she made
sure she would take
from you.
it was a grind, a coal mine.
a grueling life with her in yours.
she was a weathervane spinning
on a tin roof.
a cold front moving through.
a mystery without a clue.
she was a full time job,
with overtime, but no reward,
or joy, or payment due.