Domestic BlissThe wife has stormed back home. She's out of sorts.
Who knows? Perhaps she faced some contretemps at work,
And, now, in classic style, she is keen to kick the dog.
Alas, we do not have a dog, so she kicks me. She kicks
Our children. No one can be spared, and nothing can be
Seen as having measured up. The world's disappointed
Her, and we, the wretches who have fallen short of what
She'd hoped would be (a swiftly shifting vision, as her addled
Brain's incapable of focusing on anything), must weather her
Abuse, and wait. In time, she'll have had enough gin
To pass out, and then, come the morning, she will be at work
Again, and we'll be, briefly, free.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2018-06-15 at 03:07
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