the argument

My wife’s breasts bounce a little
as we heave accusations to and fro
across the kitchen floor, frustrations
fired in salvos between keen tennis players
panting, clawing for the breakpoint.

Such pain staying rooted in this fight
pinch an arm – keep composure
no use, slides in a familiar feeling
wilt my shame deadened heart
cease your beat, become ash.

For here, once again, is me –
difficult boy
arrogant man
not a humility in bone nor cell
a riot shield knocks teeth.

Broken bro k e
and left, as only a child can be
waiting for the world to end
scared for when it does

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