Used to It

A poem.


Used to It

His harsh tongue cuts jaggedly through the cloying air

Of fresh grass cuttings mixed with cheap tobacco

The woman smiles anxiously. She’s used to it.

The dog veers away. Also, used to it.

I cringe, but do nothing. I too, am used to it.

His tender voice comforts, coaxing her to eat;

Placing more of her favorites upon the plate.

His wife complains she’s not hungry.

He smiles gently. Lovingly. He’s used to it.

Forgetting she’s not hungry, she eats.


Be well,

Monty

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