He can waste time better
while she sits, guilt heavy
striving to work, to think - a luxury.
Miscellaneous noises emanate
from the bowels of the house
objects crash against cupboards, metal meeting wood.
And time flies with rapid
like clockwork it disappears, an
instant click of fingers snapping.
Frustration builds, simmers
in a huge metal pot, the lid fits badly
lift-off - just a thunderclap away.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Ruth Mark would be pleased to hear from you.