The Bastard Blinks

"Let's choose to acknowledge

a failure to acknowledge

the basic root of the problem here."

The bastard blinks and shrugs

then diverts his attention

to the couch and the beer.

Again, I begin, changing tacts

I ask, "Don't you think things

could've been different, dear?"

The bastard sinks,

then mumbles, I think,

something I'm not meant to hear.

In a fit of neurosis

mistook for psychosis

by an audience myopic and queer,

I take up a golf club

and brandish a smile,

then attack with a wail and a sneer.

The apartment's in ruin,

but I know what I'm doing.

I light up a cig and take stock of the year.

Seems about right:

There's blood on the walls

and a smoking heap where there once was a TV in here.

Blood on my hands, I consider my options.

Damn spot will wash out;

that, I don't fear.

There's a plane in the hangar,

a cottage up North,

a life solitary, austere.

A library to plunder,

a garden to till,

eventually children to rear.

Sure my life is in ruin,

but I know what I'm doing.

Just hand me wheel, I know how to steer.

Again, I begin: "Can we please just acknowledge

the root of the problem," I'm begging, in tears.

The bastard blinks and shrugs,

and I light up a cig and take stock of the years.