the habit of being

3:28 am

This episode of CSI, or SVU, or whatever it is,
was on once tonight already. The one where the daughter dies
and the mother lets it happen. Maybe they’re all like that.
And there’s that blonde woman selling zit cream,
like we’re supposed to believe she ever had a zit in her life.
You can tell just from the way she says acne.
The question is whether the dishes got done before,
and do they have any clean clothes for tomorrow?
How many more hours do I have
before they all start waking up,
and what did I do with that book that I’m reading?

5:47 am

The perfect boots for Callie have appeared
on a web site. With tassels.
I bookmark the page just in case
I ever have $1045.

11:07 am

My husband has left me a little note
on the board in the hallway, next to the kitten
with the pointy tail and no eyes
Callie drew last time she was home.
MAKE ME SOME TEA, it says,
at an angle, with an exclamation point
that’s how I know he really loves me.
I check in the fridge and the blue pitcher is empty.
I sit it on the counter and I’m going to start
boiling the water right now in a minute.
I’m going to play just one game of Zuma
on the computer. Then I’m going to make the tea
and then I can call him
and make sure he’s coming back.

4:15 pm

I snatch away my son’s report card
maybe just a little bit too hard.
I got an A minus on that essay I wrote
about the Donnor Party, but in my head
I award myself ten extra bonus points
for believability. That comma splice in the line,
before the Thesis Statement was a real masterpiece.

6:33 pm

Reorganizing all the bathroom stuff
according to what looks better next to what.
Shit, the tea.

8:54 pm

When did Daddy get the idea that it was okay
to say the word rectum to me?
I know his bowel movements never came up
in phone calls before Mother died.
The game is on and we must be winning
because my husband is doing that thing
with his leg. Something has happened to my cocktail.
It must’ve been the dog.

10:48 pm

Callie is online. I send her a link to the boots.
I don’t wear leather, Mom, she types.
But did she see the tassels?
A show about serial killers
is coming on at 11.

Our house, piled high with used books
and used dishes and ketchup-stained paper plates
in frayed straw paper-plate holders,
smelled of cigarette smoke and cat pee.

We sat on a Tom-sprayed couch
with crumbs down the cushions,
scatching our flea-bitten calves
and our flea-ridden kittens under their chins.

We read Emily Post and Miss Manners;
We knew everything there was to know about
what you can and can’t do with an American flag;
We knew how to address a priest or a Pope or a president;
We knew how to have an audience with the Queen.

When I answered the phone, if I could find it
under the dirty clothes pile,
and they asked for me,
I said “this is she.”

I still say that.