Blame A Bitching

Yesterday,

I told my husband,

go down the hardware store,

we're out of batteries, lightbulbs

and shame.

He lay there abusing

the sofa,

stained boxers,

foam gut bulging above

an open mouthed fly.

He sprayed me

in the eye

with malice,

bits of half

a jowl's sandwich

crusty edge reaching

his greasy head's

cluttered table,

muttering nothing,

chewing cable.

So, I went out back,

sat on the steps;

a burning cigarette,

spitting smoke

on the long haired lawn

that bum started mowing

yesterday--

eyes flicking ashes,

when I see how he stacked

the lawn chairs.

Carelessly.

Like five plastic perverts

fucking doggy style,

one green behind the other,

right there in my own yard.

An acrylic obscenity.

The neighbors,

the children.

All exposed

because that SOB

was too lazy to pick up

some shame.