Filler on Page Ten by Willow Rose
When the basement floods
and the phone goes dead;
When the twenty-seventh migraine
claws its talons through your head–
And your throat is raw;
And your ribs are sore
from the constant, futile paddling
to just make it in to shore.
It’s not getting any closer,
and it’s really rather sad
you can’t turn yourself into a frog,
and catch a lily pad.
No one pays attention
to your wandering mind,
Besides it’s time to feed the kids,
Time to get on line—
Until your house catches fire,
and the sirens rend a tear
into the fabric of your life;
A new rip in your nightmare.
Barefoot, you stand there,
take a deep breath and
you’ll be fine;
But you are wearing the wrong nightgown,
neighbors gather and point ,
and even the crimson melee’-
cannot hide their appraisal or
their wicked jealousy.
“Look at those chipped toenails,”
“Real ones aren’t that taut and firm,”
And in your mother’s hug,
your children twist and squirm.
But they don’t notice,
you should run back—-
Brave the inferno
for your gunny sack.
Sackcloth and ashes,
your usual apparel;
So you burst through the barriers,
there is no time—but yet,
you bought that new nail polish,
But the flames make you forget
Now you are playing to a crowd,
Although you cannot see,
All the accolades you’re getting,
Yes, the spring day is pleasant,
The curtain will never open again;
“Aspiring Actress Trapped by Fire,”
Is just a filler on page ten.
“What a pretty pink her toenails were,”
Should get a headline,
Now and then.
©Willow Rose 2011