Betty
Gives me cake
Of the homemade kind.
And
Sometimes
We make the cake
It all depends
On how she shakes.
Sometime’s
It’s so bad she can not move
She can not talk. Only cry
It’s painful, distressing, morbid and weary
It makes her wish to die
And then
Other times
We bake
We clean
She is back to
Her role as wife.
You wouldn’t know
That
She hates life