Because you are wonder-bread-woman--
bearer of two and a half children,
five feet and four point six inches
of dapper domestication.
soaring, you are at the peak of the bell curve, and when you slip
it's on spilled milk, never cried for.
wistful, you stand on the edge of the bed and reach,
manicure  outstretched towards plastic glow in the dark stars
upwards of your eight-foot-walls,
because after all,
ceiling's the limit.