For Lorraine Poem by Christal Bailey

He brings me breakfast in the morning and
a glass of Chardonnay at night.
Confident and strong, he's everything
I should want.
Six-figure income, five-bedroom/three bath home,
Three beautiful blonde-haired, blue eyed girls,
a dog
and a sprawling backyard.

We spent a fortune on new carpeting.

I am the better half
or so I'm told.
His criticisms are often valid,
but his hushed compliments carry me
away from the doubts that torment my mind.

What have I got to complain about?
I'm not my mother.
She's tried to get what I have
three times before.

Dream husband-to-be number four has a ring
of desperation encircling him
and we will soon recall this union as
another nightmare.

'Mother! ' I want to scream.
'Stop giving yourself to men and
nothing of yourself to me! '

No more doubts.
I am not like my mother.
I am not ending up like her.
I love my children and I've taught them to behave
in a manner that would attract suitable husbands.

No trailer trash here.

I don't mind the whispers of 'trophy wife'.
He loves me- of this I am sufficiently sure.

Why else would he bring me
breakfast in the morning
and a glass of Chardonnay at night?