Every Sunday at 9 PM he brings his bloat back to the broken home the trespasser with his belly Old Bill Cody in his Mod boots age 40 hanging over his jeans age 16 spewing the dead buffalo of his ego over my carpet. He polecats the house with a stink Lysol can't kill. The cat and I hackle it a half hour while we nod and smile the courtesies of divorce over the kid who cools it. When we pay our severance of good-byes the weekly mortgage on an abandoned house and a child split Solomon-wise I lock him out boot and belly. But he leaves behind the cadaver of our account. Faithful to the grave, once again I bury our dead and turn against stones walk from the potter's field of the past. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BEST [THING IN THE WORLD] by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE SHADES OF NIGHT by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN THE FALL OF RICHMOND [APRIL, 1865] by HERMAN MELVILLE TASTING THE EARTH by JAMES OPPENHEIM CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK; 1658 by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN MORGIANA DANCES by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |