a week in the life

he's working at the factory, and then he's home by 5, and then it's dinner time, little talk time, his wife is as sweet as ever, more tiered than ever. he the reads, reads various things, half heartedly engulfing the same ideas, failing to spark again.
he falls asleep.
on sunday mornings, he mows the lawn, sunshine is nothing but a rock on fire, and that fascinates him, it's actually a burning heap of flames far enough to be wonderful.
 and sometimes his wife doing the laundry, turns the radio on and it fills all the lonely space between them, and sometimes those mindless 15 minuits of cutting grass are the highlight of his week.
and every monday, his mother comes to visit carrying casseroles and al the broken smiles of having to sit on her son's back.
they sit and eat the same little bread and same little chicken with the same little scattered herbs trying to add shocking flare, trying to lift some misery and fails every time.
he and his wife sit on one side, his mother and sister on another.
and then he has to offer and pretend. give his mother over and over as if he bursts with giving as if there is no hole is his home.
his mother in turn, acts as if she doesn't see his hole. just so she could mend her own.


and so she leaves and then its Tuesday and its Wednesday and its thursday and it's friday and it's saturday


and then it's sunday morning again.