I don't do the work I should be doing. Your wife putters about in her kitchen, whistling a tune
under her breath, oblivious to the suffering outside.
You are dull of the mind; you get angry when you don't have to
be angry; the words roll off your tongue.
I try to have a good conversation with you, but you glare at me
from hunched shoulders,
like a gargoyle, and shout swear words to me in Spanish-
I don't know what words they are, shithead, damn, fuckturd,
that one was your favorite.