In a suburban setting
Emerge from the garage the charming father
On Sunday morning filthy words via filthy lips
Are flung
Across the hall
A shadow marinates
In shame
Glide along the fridge
Folding frowns:
“You are to me what salt is to wounds”
Creases deep enough for squashing flies
That’s why this household’s a circus of all sorts
A fight for siblings
Bratty children playing pirates
Gold digging
Learning young
Mum is crying
In the bathroom
On the tiled floor a mannequin attains nirvana
Church is cancelled
Religion can wait
Nothing is safe
Until the old man says
I am sorry
For the two tantrums
Occur simultaneously
A rehearsal
One for the children and one for the adults
Kids eat free
The dressing for conflict
Seasons to ease the sores of green mistakes
Unlike their father
The king per hour a slave for life
With the scrunched up face
Who now has to face
The music of mothers
Breathing anxiety