My mother brings in the paper
every morning while my father sleeps.
They are in their late fifties now.
When he awakes she is gone.
She goes to the church.
My father never attends although
She begs him every Easter.
My mother doesn’t work any longer since
the money started coming in.
He drinks a cup of coffee and
has two pieces of toast and
goes to work in a tucked in
polo and dry cleaned slacks.

They live terribly happy lives.

My mother spends all her time
at the church now. He works from
eleven to seven before driving home.
They each have their fix.
My father complains about how much
money my mother gives to the church
but does nothing about it because
he enjoys having a consistent topic
to complain about.
My mother complains that my father
works too much but does nothing about it
because she enjoys having the money to spend.

They live terribly consistent lives.

They have worked out the kinks of life.
They have alleviated all inconsistencies
and potential threats. It is all downhill
for them moving forward.
The kids are gone.
The house is paid for.
The hair is graying.

They live terribly faded lives.

I no longer come home to visit.
It makes me sick to see them rotting there.
I love them very much.
I am happy they are happy.
I excite for their desired complacency,
But I refuse to partake in it.

If that is what is to become of me,
I will not make it there.