March 2005 / Volume VI / Issue II
Owen Roberts

another battle over the phone,
ďIím packing your things and you can pick your shit up off the front lawn!Ē
ďFucking relax, donít touch my stuff.Ē
ďIím not even going to pack it; you can pick your clothes up off the front lawn.Ē

she doesnít realize
Iím stuck at work
doing a job
I hate
I had to sneak away to have this conversation
the boss will be looking for me
Iím stuck thinking about my clothes in a bush or in the road
Iím stuck thinking how I finally understand how rage turns into murder

thatís it,
if I find one single sock out of place when I get home
Iím offing this motherfucker

Iíll spend my final days
in a cell the size of a closet

with no job and no wife,
but at least with no clothes in the yard