work,

(a poem)

Photo by Art Institute of Chicago on Unsplash

because it sounds like 2 people breathe
in the bed next to me; but it’s only
my husband, & his greedy

black lungs. i lie here & listen
until i can’t stand it anymore,
& i get up & go to my office

so i can pretend it’s not his breath;
it’s something like thunder, way off
in a field, far away from our house.

~Mary Sue Meadows
4–3–25; 4–4–25; 4–12–25;
rejected, Ploughshares;
8–20–26; 12:14 p.m. -12:26 p.m.;
LINES: 9
WORDS: 7 / 8~