Tantrum: Adult? Male

Slam the damned door of the damned

cabinet above the kitchen counter covered in spilt milk,

and yank open the silverware drawer hard

enough to clatter four fucking forks up, and out,

and down on the tile floor,

and rip a paper towel across its perforation so perfectly

violently that it doesn’t even think about unrolling twelve sheets,

and kick the pots and skillets drawer under the oven shut

so squarely that the Teflon-coated steel must be sparking

there in the dark,

because,

and God damn it, yank open the dishwasher door so hard

downward to smack the tops of five toes . . . Oh,

I will get even with inanimate it,

and put the clean dishes away in the cabinets

above the counter,

one, slammed, buckin’ fowl—I mean fuckin’ bowl—

at a time, and screw that bastard plastic spatula; he can flip

himself back into the second drawer from the bloody top

of the counter, and oh, I should (sticky, brown stink of the cotton)

shove the soiled socks and underwear

into the washer, dry them, fold them, but slam the doors

shut so you know she knows,

because of that new job she has that somebody else doesn’t,

and stomp through the living room, looking neither right

toward her tired body, unrising to the bait of a childish tempting,

nor to the left, untouched bookshelves, filled with the folly

of an educated impracticality, books left untended,

undusted, unread, and pound the carpet of the steps

beneath two bare heels,

until the-second-from-the-top step, and twist an ankle,

and Ho—Jes—Jo—Sh—it hurts so bad

that curse cannot be formed through the pain

of the result of it all.