11. AL’s Poem to CW

Le Sigh That Doesn’t Matter

“It’s so hard to find good help these days,

Says this Lady of the Manor

Retiring to her fainting couch

After waiting for the groundskeeper

Since 7:30 am

It is now well past noon.

Time’s a wastin’.


I have barely slept in days

To stay accessible


Dressed in normal clothes

Read to answer the door.

Unlock things as needed.



Not naked. 

Or conjuring Satan 

In lingerie

In a circle fo crystals and Tarot cards

Or in a medicated sleep

Like Death 

For twenty hours.

Or exorcist crab-walking

Drenched in coconut oil

To touch each door of the house

With my bare foot.


Hey, crazy people do weird things 

When we’re home alone

Because we can.

It takes away the pain

For a moment

To be replaced with whimsy.


I have no right to complain

If the groundskeeper keeps me

Hypervigilant waiting

For days on end.


I’m not paying for this

Daddy is.

In my parasitical

Wingnut welfare sitch

For which I must

Bow my head in shame



There is not enough

Sackcloth and ashes

In the world

For the shames`

Of my diseases.


I take what is given.

Say thank you.


Silently grateful

For this benevolence

That permits me

A good life

Despite my mental illnesses.


It is a good woman’s way

To place the needs of others

Above her own.

I am no Veruca Salt.


This workman  with the chainsaw

Who is supposed to cut down

My rogue backyard tree

Is a real person with real problems

I’m guessing oxytocin?



I could be wrong.

Could be his baby,

His sick wife,

A legit crisis at his real job.


I am not a real person with real problems 

I am an emaciated glamour phantasm

Reclusive enough to be imaginary

Witch hair the color fo the moon

Who lives scarcely tolerated

At the fringes of society.

I don’t matter.

I am hardly even real.


This good working man

Who has kept me waiting

For five hours now

Three yesterday

Waiting for entire other days.

Where I sat sleepless


On the green velvet couch

Coffee in hand.

He gets paid for what he does.

I don’t. 

I never do.

I am too sick to work.


No one gives a rats ass

About my comfort

Or sleep needs.

So I guess I’ll write a bitchy poem about it

For people to resent

For I am at a loss

For anything

Else to do.


Tomorrow is another circus

Another shit show.

I grow weary.

This is what my ex-BFF used to call:

“A quality problem”

Not a good, upstanding:

“Real problem,”


For I am not real

I am hardly even alive.