Tonight, I think, as I slide
the pie out of the oven,
I will tell you, between dinner
and the washing up,
This is not the life I want to lead

I could take the mundane
if there was occasional magic
But the tricks — that’s all they were,
really — have run out
Like the tree bereft of leaves
outside the kitchen window
life is now stripped
of the welcome shade of love

I want to be free, I will tell you,
of these bonds, now more
like a noose around my neck

Filled with a new resolve
I turn to see you walk in
Hi honey, you say,
what’s for dinner?

Once again, I am unable to serve
my confession for dessert

© 2015 Uma Venkatraman ~ All Rights Reserved

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