“I never want to see you again!” she screams.

From down the hall I hear a thud,

and the screaming continues.

“Is it like this every night?” my friend asks.

“Yes, every night. I don’t understand what makes someone

stay…” I pause. “…what makes someone put up with it all.”

In my mind I dream of getting up,

of walking down the hall,

opening the door, and ending this.

I dream of making this poor excuse of a man, of a husband, of a father,

pick on someone his own size instead of victimizing the innocent around him.

I dream of rescuing this woman, these children,

from the desperation in which they constantly live.

Instead, I shake it off and turn the volume up on the television.

Sometimes I wonder who the poor excuse really is.

This poem © Kevin Walker. Published August 2012.

A Poor Excuse