Their bedroom lay in perfect symmetry,
A mythic stage. The double bed was flanked
on each side by a dresser, lamp and closet.
She'd spout her lines from her side, he from his.
Some trivial thing seemed always to begin it:
'How can you wear that jacket with those pants? ' —
Or, 'Can't you wear your hair all the way back? '
(His mother wore her hair all the way back.)
Annoyance soon gave way to full-blown rage.
Backing toward her closet as she shouted,
She opened it one day, for ammunition,
And started hurling purses from the shelf.
Clear, hard-plastic scored a direct hit
Upon his forehead. Down he fell, and lay
Like a crashed airplane in a lonely field.
I stood above his body. Was he dead?
Soon, though, he woke, stood up, and went to work.
That night, we all had mom's pot roast for supper.
Not a word about the morning's 'little tiff'.
A short story in itself. I don't mind the switch to the first person. It makes you realize that for every photograph there is another character - the photographer.
Max I enjoyed reading this piece, well-written with great visual and I wanted to know more about it. Bravo! !
Hi Max - I love that line about the crashed aeroplane - really sums up the devastion caused by rows. Nice one.
I rewrote this in iambic pentameter today, July 15. I wonder, if anyone happens by again, what you think?
This little 'Greek drama' plays out well. I read through several times and decided I like the switch from third person to first. It gives more drama and the ending...pot roast...brings it back to reality. Raynette
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like this, but when you switch from third person to first person, it throws it off. Try keeping it in the third person all the way through. avr