May 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Three
Mike Estabrook
the picture window in the family room

My wife's not having a good day,
too complicated to explain,
a nervous wreck
over our new granddaughter,
and not being able to see her as much as
she wants, let's just leave it at that,
but she's transferring her foul mood to me,
tense and angry at me, saying things
to hurt and wound.
"Every time I see you standing there
worrying about me it makes me angry
all over again," she snaps.
And I keep envisioning over
and over flinging myself through
the picture window in the family room.
I probably wouldn't die dropping
to the ground below, but certainly
would break my neck or back
or shatter my bony, thin pelvis
into 400 jig-saw puzzle pieces,
not much fun I suspect.
So instead of flinging myself through
the picture window in the family room
like I know I should,
I yell at the dog who's
been following me from room to room
all day long, staring at me
begging for biscuits and bones,
"Go lie down, damnit!"
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