The disease has me
again.
Spittle rides the screaming
like raindrops on an icy wind.
I tear into the closet like
A rabid dog, foaming.
A loafer
Knocks over the bedroom lamp,
bulb shattering.
Words sharper than claws
Rip her to shreds,
leaving bloody pieces.
Later, hunched down
in the seat,
in the dark,
at the movies,
the gentle husband,
and loving father
returns.
I wonder
Like a silly, little
boy,
Who lies about
cookie jars—
Who is that other
man?
That cruel savage.
Because I know,
I’m certain,
Positive,
he is not
me.
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