by Hillary Thomas

I want to be a housewife, 
and drink wine from a coffee mug.
Maybe I’ll screw the mailman.
I’ll watch for him behind my lacy
kitchen window shade.
Sip my pinot grigio and softly sing. 
I want to make tuna noodle casserole,
and chain smoke while my husband is at work.
I pet the ashes off of my frilly pink apron.
This place is so dark, mushrooms
grow behind the Frigidaire.
My only company, an orange cat.
He sleeps delicately on the window ledge,
and doesn’t mind the smoke.
The rings create a halo above him.