Sunday Evenings
Dishes whimpered to be washed.
After that task, she swept the bathroom floor,
then swept the kitchen floor
and swept the needy kitchen floor again.
Most evenings, long boring chores
shoved toward her, even stalked her.
But one night per week
salvation graciously glided down:
the Sunday night opera on the radio,
allowing her to be a duchess for three hours
or an Ethiopian princess,
or a playboy, or a magical flute.
Her hands gracenoted themselves
out of the kitchen sink.
She let her husband toss and snore
under a sea of Sunday newspaper.
She let her feral kids play tent in their beds.
Her makeshift living room drapes
evolved into velvet stage curtains.
The perfume of an elegant audience
arose from her dusty carpets.
Everyone keeps a life jacket,
half buried, yet accessible,
and she had hers.
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[Photo Credit: Linda Lerner]