another battle over the phone,
“I’m packing your things and you can pick your shit up off the front lawn!”
“Fucking relax, don’t touch my stuff.”
“I’m not even going to pack it; you can pick your clothes up off the front lawn.”
she doesn’t realize
I’m stuck at work
doing a job
I hate
I had to sneak away to have this conversation
the boss will be looking for me
I’m stuck thinking about my clothes in a bush or in the road
I’m stuck thinking how I finally understand how rage turns into murder
that’s it,
if I find one single sock out of place when I get home
I’m offing this motherfucker
I’ll 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