Flex some muscle, flash a wicked grin.
Pout and moan about how long it’s been.
Or…
Wail and cry… or beg and plead.
Snarl and scratch, watch myself bleed.
Or…
I could be silent, stare her down.
I could be quiet, fix her a frown.
Or…
Open her mail, throw it around.
Call her fat, “ one round mound.”
Or…
Drive off, take it somewhere.
Spin it on Facebook, spread it everywhere.
Or…
Plot a payback, less than a crime.
Cover her undies with gun oil and grime.
Or…
I could be steadfast, insistent and firm.
I could plot murder, body on the berm.
But…
I do none of that, no, not at all.
I give her my back and walk down the hall.
And then…
I take out the trash... myself.
