My clothes and other belongings Are on the lawn Looks like a yard sale without price tags Everything thrown here and there in an unrehearsed cacophony The wet grass attacks my designer briefs… Were white – now with a hint of stained green Like a semi-albino St. Patrick’s Day shamrock
The stereo system he bought me last year… It is smashed to hell – a pile of plastic and cheap metal, defeated The music is dead I sit on the edge of the sidewalk waiting for the taxi As he is here, yelling For the first time in any relationship, I am the discarded I am wet and discolored underwear no longer suitable to wear
His trucker mouth Paints the air with abusive shades of blue With his tongue and saliva A holocaust of language I blush a little My face…surely The color of next-day lipstick, faded and a bit smeared
His words Chisel into me
He calls me a “twot” A word, I think That probably shouldn’t be used In poetry
