Saturday, April 7, 2012


The Last Straw

he’s had it up to here with her
moody, silent treatment, selfish ways;
damn sick of her solo dinners,
doing her own laundry – omitting his. 
Used to be, she’d meet him at the door,
all warm smiles and willing; now it seemed,
he let himself in nightly to a dark house,
silent sofa bearing spare blanket, his pillow,
their bedroom door locked.  this night
would be different.  tonight he’d tell her
it had to stop.  time for things to go
back to the way they were.  he rams his
key in the lock, hard twist of wrist, tight
jerk fails to budge mechanism;  she’s changed
the locks and it’s the last straw.  he pummels,
fists flailing, boots drubbing the door; stopping
only when the sash above bangs open, he
watches stunned, as his belongings hurtle down
landing in a lump on the lawn


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