If You Know Domestic Bliss, You Don't Live in My House

Ah, here's the wife again. She's home from
Work, her inchoate unhappiness her calling
Card. “You didn't...” Who knows what
She'll say? We all have failed. She'll tell
Us so. She give us tasks. We'll do them
Wrong, and, once we're done, she will not
Offer any hint of gratitude. We'll simply
Get some other tasks, as life is toil. All
Is lost. The kids, now wise, will slip
Away, and I will pour myself a drink
To plug my ears against her rage.
The day, once nice, is murdered now.
The wife is home again.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 69 times
Written on 2014-09-25 at 01:35

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