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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