The Damn Prozac isn’t Working Anymore

I live in fits and starts.

I sleep away the hot

Afternoon under a slow fan.

At night, I torture myself wide-eyed

With my deviant domesticity.

My iron is always cold

And the kids are a mess.

I am a single blotch

On this white picket landscape

And I care about the Joneses –

I am not well.

I coma through the daylight hours.

I am where I started,

With one hand breaking the waves,

Waggling for a life-raft and a clear map

Of the metropolitan area.

I am the raft,

The only lifeguard for miles;

But I can’t seem to keep that

In mind. I am drowning

Myself. Greek chorus girls

Crowd the bleachers built

By my own pretty hands.