Leaving
by Martian Aries

He saw it first in the books
with names unknown-unspoken:
Simone de Beauvoir,
Henrik Ibsen,
Betty Friedan.
The Female Imagination
lies unopened on the kitchen counter
(did she really read it?).

In a private bubble
of gleaming, waxed curves,
muffling carpets, blinding-white china,
they play house like the children,
but the hour tells her to leave the playground.
It's time to go home for real,
the ever-ticking clock
Unmerciful.

The last tokens of her presence
include a load of unfolded laundry,
And the faintest whiff of dish detergent
While the plates lie
Unwashed
In the sink's rapacious gullet.