The Poetry of Sharon
Rothenfluch Cooper
No Time
Babes are finally in bed
Heaps of laundry wait patiently.
Three in diapers,
the oldest just two.
Just like triplets, always wet,
always hungry.
No wick-away disposables
invented yet.
Dinners are from scratch,
is there another way?
Not much in the way of frozen.
Convenience is what I seek.
Fresh bread baked at least
three times a week.
White shirts, one a day,
piled for my attention.
Husband has an eight hour day,
mine is close to twenty-four.
Babies at night, one or the other,
but husband has to have his sleep,
he works, you know.
No time for hair or nails.
What is a dress?
Lucky to wash my face.
No time to change,
just put on a smile.
Time for sex. Time?
What is time?
Everything runs though my mind
but pleasure.
Have to plan tomorrow.
Was that a cry?
Put the orgasm on hold.
Seems it's always on hold.
Back to bed, husband
snores softly.
Get up, turn on the TV
and watch the test pattern.
No television past eleven but...
I am alone.
It is quiet.
Looking back on those times,
I'm sure I was on
the edge of a breakdown,
but gee, who had time?
Sharon Rothenfluch Cooper(c) 2001
Intangible Perception
I stare unseeing,
draped in the scenery
of stark memories
best forgotten,
skin pallored
by overwhelming grief
that tosses restraint
like thistle-down.
Vacant eyes
drop damp petals,
control abandoned
in blue-white anguish.
Chained, addicted
to panic and fear,
my life's textures
are ground to bits of gray.
The scratched surface
of my being
is forever damaged
by broken courage.
I struggle for direction,
step hesitantly towards survival,
press my control button.
Tangled threads restored...for now.
(c) 2002