I tried to bring the world to her, God knows
I tried. That was my only job, you see,
To distract her from her tedium with shows
And tales and chats from a soft settee
And dreams that played across my screen
To draw from her, her empty sticky longings.
But there were things not to be seen
The children’s screaming desert song, in
Places she would never be. She turned away
And maybe blamed an immigrant or two
For the cost of living. But not today.
She trembling found when ironing his suit
The pressing evidence of his duplicity.
And screaming from her inner burning hell
She threw the hated heated thing at me
And here it steams inside my shattered shell.
For when the pots were washed and beds were made
My flickering shadows showed the price she paid.
.
Stephen A. Linstead
.