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Grown Men

Like a steel wall,
a stubborn bull,

there's no getting through to you.
You have become unhinged,

loosened like a bloody tooth.
I might as well talk to myself to the walls
of shopping malls.

I write out fifth anniversary invitations
on the kitchen counter imported from Italy
while snacking on Doritos.

We discuss our eight-hour days
over mashed potatoes and meatloaf,

and the fact that you're balding, stomach-ulcered,
liver-spotted boss still hasn't given you a raise.

I wake up to horn blowing traffic
and the smoke alarm of bacon burning.

You tell me you'll be a little late as you
grab your coat and the keys to the hunter green BMW.

Suitcase is left behind on the ugly coffee table
picked out at a garage sale

that I lied and said would
look great in the living room

between the sofa we make occasional love on
and the floor model TV.

I hate it when you leave me naked in bed
without a kiss goodbye
with Donahue and his guests:

"Teenage Prostitutes
and  Their Pimps"
as my morning companions.

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