Boy, he couldn't wait to get that out.
Dinner steams its cooking —
Hot little matter that's already perched a blister
On the end of his tongue for him to worry,
Worry tomorrow as he marks working hours.
"Whad'ya think he's about,
That guy across the alley
Who's always reading at his dinner table?"
"Sad man-tits, defeated virility.
A trove of commonplace tragedies."
This as she rinses dishes,
Rowing her elbows close to those "y'know's,"
Hard baseballs beneath her blouse;
Those always got him going.
And, ah, eftsoons it will be snowing.
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