BRUISED FRUIT. (STRONG LANGUAGE)

[dadio]

Was that it, was that
What it was all about?

She couldn’t say for sure,
But it seemed so, the way

He had with people, his
Temper rising like some

Disturbed bear from slumber.
She’d watch her step, tread

Carefully over the matters
Of the day, be mindful of her

Words, not look at him too
Long or too often. He would

Be home soon, the car in the
Driveway, the key in the lock,

The welcoming call or not, or
Just the grunt and slam of door.

She’d cooked his favourite meal,
Set the table as he liked it, all

Things in their place, neat and
Tidy, not a speck of dust or dirt.

She’d done her hair as he liked
It best, put on the patterned

Dress, the makeup not too over
Done, just enough. She’d turned

The radio off, the TV stuck in the
Corner off until he turned it on

If he wanted it so and when.
She sighed and waited, breath

Unsteady, mind anxious, thoughts
Abated. Last time he was in one

Of those moods, he’d bruised her
Like a piece fruit, split a lip, blacked

An eye, fucked her sore, cursed,
Damned and swore, called her a

Two-bit whore. She flapped her
Hand to drive away the smoke

From the cigarette she held, nerves
Tight, fingers clamped on the

Papered tobacco, the eyes and
Ears alert and there was the car

On the drive, and there on the
Lampshade a blatant piece of dirt.

[hester_prynne]

You nailed a sad, and all too common scene here Dadio.
Yeah.
H

[dadio]

Thank you for reading, yes, I am afraid it is so.