Elizabeth DeAngelo
Musings Over a White Picket Fence
Don’t look at me like that when I
take my Prozac with Tanqueray and
ask why it doesn’t work. I know
it’s because the sky wore a darker shade
of blue today and my husband only loves me
when we talk about him. Damn,
where’s my Emmy for best-supporting actress?
I’ve been folding tee shirts for years now,
and all I have is this stupid townhouse to show for it.
Thanks For Your Unsolicited Advice
I have diagnosed myself with righteous indignation.
Symptoms include delusions that I am not, in fact,
my mother’s daughter and that my drinking is
the elegant kind that lets me get my daughter to
ballet class instead of clinging to the toilet
making already-broken promises, wondering just
how much the dry cleaning will cost—but, you’re right,
I should smile more.
What Are You Trying to Prove
You claim to make six figures, but I’ve seen
your tax returns. I never cared for
commas or their little breaths. Listen to them
shatter on the shower floor when my arms
grow too angry to hold them. You hate
footprints on scrubbed tile.
