The Middle Aged Woman Writes a Mailing Address

Nibbles the pen cap, taps it,
Draws a swirl, a butterfly,
A second swirl, more expansive.
Her mother's voice on the other end of the phone
Grows duller, cozier. "How about that?"
and "That's too bad," and "Yeah."

The art museum is a world away.
The theater is a world away.
Nice restaurants with charming people
And sensible portions are a world away.

The middle aged woman raises an
Iceberg arm to run her sausage fingers
Through her hair. The rest of the iceberg,
Hidden by sweat pants the color of fried chicken
And a t-shirt featuring kittens,
Crushes the couch beneath her.

Her mother's voice on the other end of the phone
Goes on and on, joining the tranquilizing
Voices of a daytime talk show.
The woman doodles another butterfly-
She was always good at drawing butterflies-
And cries.