The jelly cleaned off the worn linoleum,
the laundry folded and put away,
three children washed and bedded,
Thelma kicks off her floppies,
drops her bra from her sagging breasts
dons her flannel granny,
tattered and gray,
and climbs into bed
beside her snoring husband
who dreams, not of her,
but of women seen on his computer,
of scarlet lips,
tiny waists and flaring hips.
of six– inch heels worn in bed.
Even if she knew,
Thelma’s too tired to care.
The institution is flawed.