[Alex Pepple]

A Housewife’s Diary Letter


You were at work when, yesterday, I felt
as if sleepwalking at the grocery store—
there just for a bar of butter. Yeah, small chore—
not like trips where I’d dragged you there. I dealt
with it. Today, I’d dozed off with your breakfast
cooking on the stove. It was oatmeal.
Imagine how it crusted black. I woke fast
and scrubbed and scrubbed with pumice stone on steel.

I’d napped preparing it with thoughts about
that Safeway grocery incident last night.
I tried to let you in on it, all right?
So, when did you come home?—I’m blanking out.
I wish you didn’t leave your beeper on
vibrate—and surely not atop the fridge.
It clattered like a power saw at dawn
and jerked me wide awake, like pots in a sledge,

as did your noisy snore from the bedroom
upstairs; then how it huffed above Good Morning
America—the endless talk of groaning
sex there, at the White House, all those with whom
they thought he did it. Right then, I was back
to last night’s meets. He didn’t mind at all
shopping. From work, he drove in. His jet-black
hair seemed like yours. Guess what? Like you, he’s Paul!

I had just dodged the meat aisle pillar. There
it loomed. Him too. I was behind him when
checking out. What a fluke! The cashier then,
quite bubbly, tallied what she bagged with flair—
a shaken Coke bottle with cap gone pop.
Don’t touch my food divider. Stop! the lady
in front yelled out. He gently let it drop,
not answering her back. A man not ready

to press a point against a woman. Don’t
you know, you never touch a woman’s goods,
the cashier chimed in. Next, she caught the dude’s
eye for checkout: Five and a cent, she droned.
He gave a fiver, hesitant with the one
he’d rather not break. I reached into my bra
purse, offered him that penny, and deal done.
He bowed and bowed. A man who’d stoop to a ma-

dam just for one paltry penny. I smiled.
He smiled. Before he could say anything
the cashier cut in: I’m now gonna ring
it. Lots of nice folk here too—she was dialed
in. Thus I lingered at the heart of it.
We’ve got to sit and talk when both awake.
You must have night tales too, your own tidbit.
Truly, let’s talk. Oh, treat’s in the fridge: cupcake.

-----
S2L3: was "I tried to tell you about it, all right?"
S2L8: "awake" > "wide awake"
S3L4: end-of-line comma removed
S3L5: comma after "thought" removed
S5L5: was "eye for checkout: Five bucks, one cent, she droned."
S5L6: "her five" > "a fiver"




------------------------------------------------------


~~~Original version ~~~

A Housewife’s Diary Letter


You were at work when, yesterday, I felt
as if sleepwalking at the grocery store—
there just for a bar of butter. Yeah, small chore—
not like trips where I’d dragged you there. I dealt
with it. Today, I had left your breakfast
atop the kitchen stove. It was oatmeal.
Imagine how it crusted black. Aghast,
I scrubbed and scrubbed with pumice stone on steel.

I’d dozed off while cooking with thoughts about
that Safeway grocery incident last night.
I tried to tell you about it, all right?
So, when did you come home?—I’m blanking out.
I wish you didn’t leave your beeper on
vibrate, specially not atop the fridge.
It clattered like a power saw at dawn
and jerked me awake, like pots in a sledge,

as did your noisy snore from the bedroom
upstairs; then how it huffed above Good Morning
America—the endless talk of yawning
sex there, at the White House, all those with whom,
they suppose, he did it. Right then, came back
last night’s events. He didn’t mind at all
shopping, and drove in from work. His jet-black
hair seemed like yours. Guess what? Like you, he’s Paul!

I had just dodged the meat aisle pillar. There
it loomed. Him too. I was behind him when
checking out. What a fluke! The cashier in
effervescent mood bagged and tallied with flair—
a shaken Coke bottle with cap gone pop.
Don’t touch my food divider. Stop! the lady
in front yelled out. He gently let it drop,
not answering her back. A man not ready

to press a point against a woman. Don’t
you know, you never touch a woman’s goods,
the cashier chimed in. Next, she caught the dude’s
eye for checkout: Five bucks, one cent, she droned.
He gave her five, hesitant with the one
he’d rather not break. I reached into my bra
purse, offered him that penny, and deal done.
He bowed and bowed. A man who’d stoop to a ma-

dam just for one paltry penny. I smiled.
He smiled. Before he could say anything
the cashier cut in: I’m now gonna ring
it. Lots of nice folk here too—she was dialed
in. Thus I lingered at the heart of it.
We’ve got to sit and talk when both awake.
You must have night tales too, your own tidbit.
Truly, let’s talk. Oh, treat’s in the fridge: cupcake.