TWENTY, FOUR, AND SEVEN

 

Today, step out front door to walk to work. Lock door.

Unlock door. Walk back in. Check stove element. Turn

it on. Turn it off. Step out front door again. Repeat

six times.

 

Twenty years ago, step out front door, help mother

garden. Enjoy self at first. Count the tomatoes. Count

his drunk beers. Count her hidden bruises. Keep eyes

down.

 

Today, begin walk to work, step on cracks only. No

matter, she is already gone. Stand at crosswalk ,

push walk button six times.

 

Seven years ago, leave home, go to college, fall in

love once, marry him. Check his breathing twice, see

if sleeping. Get up. Rewash all dishes in cupboards.

Cry into dish water when finished. One, the number of

times he said he was leaving. Two, the days it

took him to pack up and go. Twenty-four-seven, the

time spent missing him.

 

Today, circle block before entering building of

employment. Repeat six times. When in lobby, push

button with arrow pointing up. Six times.

 

Four years ago, sit at home alone. When phone rings,

pick up after three rings. Meet friend who does not

understand it, but tolerates it. Talk about life.

Never talk about it. Go home. Rewash dishes. Weep.

Sleep.

 

Today, walk to desk. Watch as coworkers stop working

and wait for it. Turn computer monitor on and off six

times. Pick up phone after sixth ring. Walk toward

boss' office. Turn doorknob six times. Increase to

twelve times. Lower eyes to ground once inside. Three,

the number of warnings generally given before being

let go. Seven, the number of warnings received

because boss has genuine concern.

Twenty, the number of minutes to pack up

desk and leave.

Michelle Willms is a former lounge singer who enjoys painting and reading. She is graduating from McMaster University with a double major in Social Work and Sociology. E-mail: michellekretz@yahoo.com.

Dance to Death, Issue IX

©2008 Sorrowland Press and all respective artists within.