"What does your mother do all day?"

I wait, deflating, wondering
how my daughter would reply
as I sit, considering
that I hadn't stopped to think
perhaps I am an oddity
my kids would have to reconcile
in comparison to those
whom I welcome in my home.

Did they count my cigarettes?
I do now--embarrassment,
that I am so incorrect
maintaining habits better left
to decades I try to forget
with glasses of merlot.

I do the stuff that no one sees.
I wash the dishes, cook the beans--
a huge stock pot of that to feed
these people who are questioning
what it is I do all day.

I feed the dogs. I fetch the mail.
I pull in the garbage pails.
I try to keep the pantry stocked.
I shake my head and pair their socks
wondering where the others went
and exile single socks as if
the other will miraculous
come bail their mates out of sock jail.

I play on the internet.
Making snowflakes, making friends
fighting off the loneliness
with poems and "remember when"
I used to be so different--
a life without them, emptiness....

I have forgotten how to live.
Or perhaps, I never did
know how to be the star of this
play, that scares me, motionless.

I'm doing better
or so I thought
I sleep at night
and I can walk
down the street and to the store
but I forget what I went for,
so I make lots of lists.

I strained to hear what she would say--
What does your mother do all day?

"She does what she can" she hissed,
"and when she writes, she's genius."

I hang my head and cry.