The women and the wives wearing pastel
dresses at dawn which are hinged at the waist
and who cart their children in company
carriages and stroll amongst the aisles
hunting for frozen happiness that their
husbands expect after their exodus
from the offices toward their warmed
kitchens. But they are void from the
linoleum paths, illuminated
by the brutish presence of the clenching
fist, firmed around the waist of a controlled
body beholden to the burden of
the child whose early education comes
from the colored covers of the frozen
wrappings of boxes made by the Mad.
The ceilings hang white lights, carrying down
the silently humming fluorescents which
trickle upon the clean smiles too perfect
for their husbands, for their neighbors. Never
are the carmine lips to close upon the
happy smile, the husband’s pathway to
“How are you?” without asking any words.
A crack, a bust, a dwindled seem is seen
in the chrome-framed window to the prepared
packages of pasta and boxes of bread
where she, the solitary wife left there,
reaches into the mirror before its
close. And then her eyes catch one another.
They quiver in the light, blue against her
fallen locks of sun-burst blonde, standing in
the florescence of their white, blank canvases
in the moments before her breath leaves her
beating chest – chasing fallen memories
which flew with iron wings never leaving
the humbly warm abode of hopes and dreams.
She is caught between the food and her one
child behind her – two worlds to appease her
being, her presence, her place in that hand-
crafted world upon which she stands stunned by
the presence of her hope once made, now lost.
Both beings, one real and one dead, stand guard
of her actions, waiting for her to choose
and for her to conform to the needs
of her husband or the needs of her child.
Before the welled tear can fall upon the
floor, she grabs the food and in one with babe--
she walks on, into the crowd of dreams made
finite by the will of the husband, and
the education of the begotten.