Deep in the purple velvet corner of her mind,
he sprawls across an overstuffed leather sofa,
guzzles beer after beer,
clips his toenails into the carpet.
Months since I walked out into the rain.
And still he's got a hold.
Maybe I should try some Raid or something.
Occasionally, she barges in,
hands on hips, teeth grinding,
points toward the tiled corner,
the corner nearest the door.
He knows me better than I thought.
Taken my most private place hostage.
At least he could wash that a**.
Sometimes, she slips in with a case,
plops down on the sticky leather,
s t r e t c h e s
drops the remote behind the couch
as he digs deep for one more chip.
The stench is unbearable.
I wonder if the exterminator could ...
It just takes time, honey.
Or so my therapist tells me.
Posted inPoetry
In Residence
