Her Time

A  Friday night is her time, and it’s clear
that doesn’t mean a pizza with the kids.
It does no harm, it’s just a little beer
she sips out on the deck where she can hear
no whining, just the song of katydids.
A Friday night is her time. She made clear
there’s hell to pay if any child comes near.
Inside it sounds as if they’ve flipped their lids—
that does no harm. And just a little beer
can make the aggravation disappear.
If hubby were around more, he’d get rid
of Friday night as her time. Is it clear
she’s not a lush? Okay, she has this fear
it’s something that society forbids.
The harm, the harm! Not just a little beer,
but four cans, five!  The neighborhood will sneer
at how this perfect mother hit the skids.
A Friday night is her time. What’s not clear?
It does no harm; it’s just a little beer.


Prompt source: NaBloPoMo Poetry Contest: Villanelles (BlogHer)

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3 Responses to Her Time

  1. If your Friday night five beers leads down the path of destruction, I’ll be walking alongside.

    Great post.

    • NancyB says:

      Well, I’m not judging in this poem! I meant more to paint a portrait of a frustrated woman who can’t even drink a few beers in peace–not to put down the drinking itself. I can’t quite handle five, but I do love a Guinness now and then!

      By the way, I love your blog! My mother is the cook in our two-person household, and I’ve forwarded the link so she can try some of your wonderful-sounding recipes!

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