It's 2am.
And dread stalks me across the soft linen of my bed.
You are coming home alive and how I wish you wouldn't.

(I remember how you smirked at my tears.)

It's 2am and anger swells my throat with acid.
(You make me involuntarily evil, you bastard.)

And when I fall against the pillows, my fists bruising my palms,
I think of the rejection in their young faces and ...

(Do you love her?  

                 = Yes =

shhhhhhhhhhh!!!!  that is the sound of glass splintering inside my chest)

You'll come.  A hero returned.  Celebrated from coast to coast. 

Whether
reviled or revered,
no one denies
that you were brave.

But here, in this small insignificant corner...

(Your son cut himself teaching himself to shave two weeks ago.)

where we can barely make ends meet....

(Your daughter said she didn't need to attend the Daddy-daughter dance.)

Your memory is painful and cutting.

And we're faithful against our will,

Frozen by the fear of men like you. 

And in two days you and your new woman will arrive in your tricked out ride...

And leave their little faces in the ground after you've done the daddy-act for a few hours...

you. should. be. dead.

But your not.

Your not.