I apologize under the fluorescents, I apologize under my breath for all dinners eaten without thanks, for the bread- polished plates left behind without a word. You can see the years and silence weighing on my fellow shoppers. Future alimony checks unwritten ride in successive lines across foreheads. Unpaid childsupport months are passed over conscious minds like a hand over the carefully stacked yams. Pasta s picked often for its eight-minute cooking time.
Many men reward some inner lost boy with a bag of cookies here, some ice cream there.
At home, kitchens abandoned for sofas, laundry is pushed aside as the sardines and crackers are opened. On nights like this, the day-job hours still clinging to my ankles like running weights, I want all the women to know. Their women and my women. Those from the past who each took care of me in her own small or great way. Those who preen and fuss over others now, and those who re dead.