Here's this week's Divorced Dad poem.
A Divorced Dad Punches
a Wall
He knew what he was doing.
He saw where the picture
Of the inspirational red Maserati was framed.
Cocked his fist,
Pushed up his glasses,
Moved his arm six inches to the right
(avoiding the unyielding stud)
And was gratified.
The drywall shivered into a gust of speckled powder
And the surface shook
And the skin on his right ring finger snagged a screw
-
But did not bleed –
Once done, like in all erotic
acts,
He found himself humbled
With the clumsy task of
extrication.
Using his second hand as leverage
To winch out the caged limb.
The hole now open, he peered
Into the mess he made, and
sighed.
The walls, they're just air, cheap
gypsum board,
And wood.
Not concrete like his childhood.
Nothing really lasts anymore.
Nothing holds up under the sudden
fist of misery.
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