Poem: It's the end of the day

It’s the end of the day

But I’m not done

I feel undone

It’s not time

There’s not time

For what I’d like to do:

Painting,

Writing

Playing

Having fun.

What is fun?

Getting all my work done?

Does it ever get done?

And those piles?

And those emails?

And those requests?

That I have not-so-gracefully turned

down.

And then there’s the things to do at home:

Birthdays to be celebrated

And planned

Gifts to buy

And wrap

For offspring and parents

And spouses

Don’t let them down.

There are taxes to be filed in double countries.

And what of my children

both nearly grown.

Who bruise their hands badly

Playing squash at school

The day before a final.

Or get sick and then they can’t be nursing the sick.

And the cat that may or may not be limping.

Does she need medication?

Do I?

The wounded healers

Are we.

The achingly raw

Very strong and capable

Superwomen

Who hardly ever feel pain

But do feel

Dread

At the end of the day

And sometimes at the beginning

Or in the night.

When the day is done

But not quite.