PenWomanShip

Seven o'clock. Inspiration
hasn't popped in for dinner;
the pen is drier than my mouth.

Everyday there are tests to pass:
draining the pasta "al dente",
formulating secrets in the sauce.

Notepads scatter around the house
like roach invasion; afterwards
there's no fixing the disorder.

Poirot's mustache peeks from stacks
of reference books. Detectives
are irresistible after a certain hour.

Suicidal papers plunge irretrievably
into the space between table and wall,
dream of waking up a bestseller.

At best, a stranger will find
and read the worst sonnets aloud.
That's my funeral buffet.

In the background, my sister
in black will guffaw hysterically
at all the wrong lines.

A bad organist will play the banshee,
dulcet melodies that unthread
knots from winding sentences.

Everyone will be thankful
once it's over. Even now the computer
gathers dust like a tombstone.

Dark smoke unfurls from the kitchen.
The golden plaque, "Housewife of the Year"
on the wall is false like teeth.