Another Friday Night Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

She sat inside her ice-cream life
and guessed the number of
bingo markers it might take
to win the jackpot.
Sometimes she questioned why
so many people drove her
crazy.
Insulted her.
She divided her friends and lovers
into good and bad directions.

It was raining outside when
she began to cook the supper.
The stove was hot.
She was cold.
She was always cold in her house.
In her ice vein kitchen with
the pretty white lace curtains
and the yellow-green walls.

Her problems could all be
isolated into one situation after
another.
She lit a cigarette.
Sitting at her table wondering
if she should cook rice or potatoes
with the meat.
It didn't matter,
they'd wolf down the food
without a glance at her efforts.

She found she was happier
when the kids were at school and
that man was at work
doing whatever it
was he did to earn
the money.
Impatience wasn't
so much her statement
as was unconcern.
'So what',
she thought, as she dusted her ashes
into the ashtray.

Her memories could stretch so
far back before this life.
Yet she knew that what she knew
wasn't really very much at all.
Maybe he really loved her?
Who knew!
For her, it was only a situation.
She wondered if they'd remember
to take their shoes off at the door?

Her feelings could easily be hurt.
On the other hand, she often
neglected to express herself.
At half past five she'd put supper
on the table.
They would sit around it.
Her family sharing the same room
and the same bathroom.
Pity that
they were mutually ignorant of
one other.

She put out her cigarette.
Light another.
She wasn't afraid of cancer,
just living.
Working man would be home soon.
Kids would follow soon after.
Sighing she stood up and pushed
the cat away with her foot.
Irritated, she
checked her purse.
Bingo markers neatly labelled.
Another Friday night.