"I think there is a problem here,"
you say deductively,
"but I don't know what it is,"
as lighted arrows flash around you, pointing, accusatory
you shrug beneath their illumination
your sleuthing is not up to snuff
"It's been a long day," you tell me
with an exaggerated yawn,
"I just want to relax,"
audibly excusing yourself from
the guilt of your intoxication,
you exchange your oxygen for smoke,
turn your water into wine
and suddenly you're feeling fine
tiny grasping hands and
interrupted sleep and
menial household tasks whose completion bring
such little satisfaction become
problems for tomorrow
and coping seems much less impossible
as the flat line of your lips relaxes and curves at the corners
and the strain in your muscles seems to melt
and when your head hits the pillow you pretend not to know
that the worst will be felt