(A Requiem in 5:30 PM)
The whistle blows, the clock strikes five,
The ritual starts to stay alive.
He hangs his coat, he finds his chair,
Exhales his stress into the air.
But she—she trades one cage for two,
With ghosts of chores she’s meant to do.
She earns the bread, but kneads the dough,
The pay is there, enough for show.
For every hour he sells for gold,
Her time is bartered, bought, and sold
For some hundreds upon his buck—
A hollow prize, a stroke of luck.
The baby wails a hungry knell,
The kitchen is a steam-filled hell.
Two school-age specters haunt the floor,
With "Where’s my socks?" and "Give me more!"
The laundry mountain starts to slide—
A white-washed tomb where dreams have died.
He "helps" by asking what’s for tea,
As blind as any other statue be.
He does not see the grime, the grease,
The quiet theft of all her peace.
He works a job; she works a life,
A double-agent, ghost, and wife.
The midnight moon begins to creep,
While half the house is fast asleep.
She mops the floor in shadow-light,
A silent sentry of the night.
Two shifts, one soul, a heavy cost—
The woman in the machine is lost.
