Country Song or Blues or…..

I Can’t Sleep Again
My Husband is in Austin Blues
10 Pounds of Bat Guano in a 5 Pound Bag

My stomach:
A twisted knot of kimchee, jalapeno sauerkraut.
A playground for hyperactive butterflies.

My heart:
A black hole of isolation and despair.
A pincushion for railroad spikes.

My mind:
A bowl of mushy over-ripe banana pudding.
A blackened Cajun red snapper.

My spirit:
“MOM! I’m tired of going around in circles!”
“Shut up, or I’ll nail your other shoe to the floor.”
A dank, moldering cellar.

My world:
The bottom of a compost heap, crawling with worms and insects.
A package of crackers the kids used for a hockey puck.

Momma Friday Nights

Friday nights I used to go “out”.
Get dressed up, turn heads.

Now I’m a mom, Lani’s mom.
This Friday I’m selling
Girl Scout Cookies at Winn Dixie.

Get dressed, go out, turn heads?

Now I’m a mom, Trent’s mom.
Last Friday I went to bed
with a pile of picture books
and a clean, little, snuggle bunny.

Fem Fatale no more.

Now I’m a mom, Ian’s mom.
I look up to him and we argue about haircuts.
He wants one, and I love his curls.

Some Fridays we order pizza
and watch rented movies
a jumble of arms and legs
in, on and around the couch.

Love handles and thunder thighs.

Now that I’m a mom
and a new grand-mom (Welcome! Thomas)
I’m frumpy-dumpy
more cuddley comfortable
More T&A than a killer-red-dress type.

Friday nights I used to go “Out!”
Get dressed up and turn heads.

Since I’ve been a mom, Friday nights are sweeter.
Moms get tender peanut-butter kisses.
Moms get lovey-snuggle-hugs.
Moms get original art work for their refrigerators.

Momma Friday nights sure beat the heck
out of tight jeans and red high-heeled cowboy boots.

Zen Time

This is a zen sort of time-
Responsible only for me
No children to watch over and care for
I sort of drift in and out
of conscious thought

It’s a feeling—-watching—-feeling mode

I’m comfortable with my company

Off to bed

Saw a guy in Applebee’s that looked like Tom
A Kirby? I almost asked him.