May 152012

by John Grey


He came home angry.

His fist tightened,

aching for a wall to bust.

He kicked a chair,

screamed at a dog.

Our faces were next in line.

A whack across the jaw,

not for something we did

but for what the day didn’t.


The job smacked him down.

Men in gray suits

were never in his corner,

always cheered on

the work to be done.

Many was the task

that flattened him

And we’ve the bruises

to prove his losses.