The Open Door

It was the longest summer day in June
when I left the door open
and it slowly sucked the cool air
from this suburban paradise.
Upon his return, he checked the thermostat
and simmered,
"Again?"

And I glared at the open door and wondered
how much further I could push it open
with just my thoughts.
I sat on our leather couch in my underwear
flanked by our two children.

"Again," I replied.
And it all came to me that he was right all along.
This place really was a disaster.

The thermostat is set too high, the floors are dirty, the laundry piles,
the mold in the shower, the dishes in the sink, the littered car interior,
oh why did we get a dog, we're never home.
the kids' rooms are a mess,
you really think you should eat that/haven't you had enough?
that's too much, that's too far,
you should run--it's the best way to drop weight,
the door is unlocked, the garage isn't cracked to let the heat out,
of course you can have lunch with your rich friends,
you're a slob - I don't want my kids growing up to be slobs.
Jesus, what did you do all day?
This place is a disaster.

Yes, Jesus, what did I do?
I left the couch and opened the door wider.
And then like the chill in the room,
I left.