Home He Comes

Home he comes,
Six pack swinging,
Bottles clanging,
Smoke in a pocket.
She hears the cries in her
Heart as he gives out hugs.
Never does he guess the hatred
She holds for him
For he sees the world
Through sleepy-cat eyes.
Immediately he speaks of later.
Later, later, later.
The hated word makes her cringe
Yet when the time comes,
She gives.
Gritting teeth, holding inside
The tears and horror, she hands
Her body over for his beastly touch.
After the chore, she rolls away from
His sour beer smell, hugs her pillow
And between quiet sobs
Whispers,
"I hate that son of a bitch."


ŠNovember 27,1999