This morning I am having breakfast with a pair of socks. Actually- with a pile of laundry that I find painfully difficult to fold. 

Heaped up on the table, 

Next to the socks- folded,

Next to my plate of fresh eggs. 

Eggs that never got cold- from chicken to pan, to plate. 

That fresh. 

This morning I am having breakfast with a pair of folded socks. 


And trying not to cry. 

Not the kind of alone I rant and rave for-

Not the kind that my motherhood screams and cries and 

Goddamnit- why can’t I just have time to myself?!

Not that. Not solitude. 

Just alone with reminders of the things that need to be done 

And the people I miss that the things belong to. 

And when I do cry-

I will probably wipe my tears with the laundry. 

Using the painfully difficult to do,

To comfort the painfully unavoidable thing I often can’t stop doing. 

I wonder,

If they noticed me the way I need to be noticed-

Would the loneliness end?

Would solitude find me?

Would I feel any less a failure and perhaps,



Of anything really. 
Life is so much to do. 

And it seems I’ve done nothing. 

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