Daily Alert

My bladder thumps painfully, waking me from a preferable dream.

It's a daily alert that I will avoid responsibilities, grief, and guilt.

I keep my eyes shut. I don’t want any indication of the time.

Regardless, I receive it as I roll over,

feeling the vacancy where my husband slept.

I adjust my body by kicking my legs, disturbing the Frenchie.

He circles the spot, one, two, three times, before settling among covers.

I try to tune out the outside noises:

birds, cars, squirrels.

I order myself, “Go back to sleep,”

Instead, my mind lists everything I could do, filling my chest with anxiety.

It won’t quiet while I ignore my body’s needs.

Keeping my eyes closed, I feel for furniture to aid my way.

Once relieved, I head back toward bed.

I count inhales and exhales as my shrink suggested.

But the Frenchie’s face is suddenly in mine, licking long strokes.

Accumulated crust obscures my sight; now I have to open them.

The sun’s brightness irritates me; fearing the expectation it brings.

Yesterday was better with rain, giving me an excuse to lie and scroll.

My nose is still running- cough persistent.

Maybe I can justify avoiding "today" one more time.

I sigh, putting on worn slippers. I had looked for new pairs;

There were too many options, so I aborted the task.

My knees protest each step down the stairs while the Frenchie pulls.

Months ago, I was cycling, lifting, tending to my wellness;

How quickly muscles forget.

Outside, the earth is damp but promises a beautiful spring.

Tulips are beginning to bloom; I lead the dog away.

Pretty soon, it’ll be nice enough to take him to the park.

“But will you?” asks that negative voice.

We walk back inside, past a shelf that needs dusting

and a floor that needs sweeping.

I hear the other animals: two male mini pigs,

and a 17-year-old Chiweenie who can’t see.

The boys want rubs or treats; the old lady just whines, like me.

I contemplate staying downstairs, maybe doing something productive.

Remembering laundry in the washing machine, dishes from days ago.

The Frenchie barks at the bottom step. Easy to blame him.

Back in my room, I fantasize about magic, imagining I am Mary Poppins

snapping her fingers to clean the house.

It consumes me as I look around at old takeaway wrappers

overflowing a 30-gallon bag.

The dog wanders onto my lap.

I reach out; the odor from my underarms invades my nostrils.

I swipe my tongue across my teeth, feeling unwashed tartar.

Like the little girl I once was, I am angry that fairy tales aren’t true.

I am not Cinderella; animals cannot manage my hygiene

any more than my husband can turn into a prince.

I am aware of so many things.

Time moves, whether a clock is broken or I stay in bed.

I would rather write a poem about knowing I am depressed

than get out of it.

Avoidance is my survival.