she plunks herself into an easy chair and thinks
how easy it would be to drift off
to where tin soldiers of her sleep exist
the clock is ticking and the kids are still awake
hopped up on jelly beans and air that isn't fresh
the man with the broken hands hovers
like a vulture
for his nightly feed
she grunts some
indiscernible lingo
drags her sorry ass
into the kitchen
if only she could
light upon a porch somewhere
below the eaves of moonlit skies
where there is shelter
and place her priceless gold there
but in the real world
and with a little polished pine
she finds her way back home
where the precious gems are
truly prized
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