11:30

Yesterday my paid maternity-leave ended and today I officially joined the ranks of the thousands of women who have left careers to raise their children. It reminded me of a poem I wrote while in college, dreaming of this day.

11:30

The buzzer on the
macaroni-splattered microwave warns
that the faded t-shirt
and misshapen sweats
were discarded hours ago
by women with real jobs.
But the disapproving hour is ignored
by she with the widened hips
and sagging breasts
who listens only for
the growling tummies
of the macaroni-eaters
whose syruped-fingers
paint the sliding glass doors
and tangled-hair screams
drown out the radio.
Real women get roses.
But only at 11:30 will a
gapped-toothed delivery boy
with a dozen muddy marigolds
offer to help make lunch.