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...HEGIRA by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON IVY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON LINES ON CARMEN SYLVA by EMMA LAZARUS THE ROAD TO AVIGNON by AMY LOWELL SURFACES AND MASKS; 7 by CLARENCE MAJOR DOMESDAY BOOK: MRS. MURRAY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TOWERS OF SIMON RODIA; FOR HOWARD W. SWENSON 1903-1081 by KAREN SWENSON |