Shifting

You tell yourself that you agreed to this-
what has been done with your life,
willingly.

Still, there is a constant tug-
a stretching,
and what is left of you is pulling loose.

Suddenly, you find you are shifting
into what you hate most.

The warped closet door that no longer opens,
the paint-worn wall in the hallway,
the water stained floor in your children's room,
the weed-torn garden that you never set foot in.

And he is too tired,
his tools left collecting dust
in some far corner
of the darkened shed, too long,
to fix you.

So again you fold the sheets across their creases,
arrange the chairs at the dining table,
allign the spoons and forks,
and wipe handprints off the windows-

all while staring out at that faded shed
as it casts its crooked shadow across the yard-
as though it holds something that can save you.