Domestic Bliss

She uses an elbow to press down the door handle,

heavy bags hang like helpless bodies

from her wrist.

She shoves open the door

puffing air from her lips,

back sagging slightly,

neck straining

under the weight

of groceries.

Handbag tucked

under one arm

clamped tightly lest it fall.

Or it's another job just having to push everything back in:

old receipts, a hair grip, chewing gum wrapper,

a lip balm, purse,

old softened tissue from the crummy depths.

Fluff. A biro, sticky with who-knows-what.

Sigh.

A tin rolls free from a plastic shopping bag onto the hard floor.

It thuds and carries on

Only stopping when it hits the shoe cupboard.

She curses under her breath.

-

She holds the grocery bags awkwardly away from the white walls,

arms straining.

She stumbles and shuffles to the kitchen,

calling, 'Hello?'

Cursing the sharp edges of a cereal box.

She drops the bags thankfully to the floor and straightens

trying to ease an aching back and rubbing sore wrists.

Red lines cut in to pale skin.

She pushes boxes and packets into disorganised cupboards,

bends to a crowded fridge.

'Anyone home?'

She pushes this and that about until there's room.

A bottle of ketchup wallops the floor

and a tub of butter jumps with it.

A muttered curse.

Standing, she wipes up crumbs from the counter,

puts dishes into the dishwasher.

The same old thing every day.

Does anyone else live here?

-

He pads into the kitchen, dazed and smiling,

Clutching a tablet under his arm.

He's obviously been dozing.

'Oh sorry, love,

I'll give you a hand.'

A muttered curse.

She grins with a wry grimace.

'Oh, I've already done everything.'

'Oh, sorry!'

He flicks on the kettle.

'Tea?'

- Looking at married life through a lense of humour ;)