On mornings when husbands sleep with their wives
while the hard rains are gusting the windows,
who has a new thing to say of such lives:
old beds that squeak of soon to be widows.
On afternoons when the children stay home,
no mom sees more than they’re willing to show.
Kids would much rather leave town and just roam
on such days; they can’t leave and they can’t go.
On evenings when wives put food on the table,
the family sits in silence to eat,
and no one can move, as no one is able.
Days will go on so, disgusted in heat.
On nights when all wait for sleep before death
they feel the air of the devils own breath.