Saturday Night ~anna hood~

His shadow, lungs near exploding
enters first. Unsteady pointed toes ballet
across the sill on a river of Scotch.

She’s crouched
behind the door
plastic sacs bulging, horns
hidden inside pink foam
rolls of hair. Yards of chenille
cover legs that end
in cloven hooves.

Clutching shoes, he weasels in
peering ‘round corners
ears straining, nostrils
flared, sniffing through furniture
polish, onions, cat box odours
for wifely scents.
Claps, silently. Grins. Safe
thinks he, the old bag sleeps.
This, is when she springs

from behind her door.
Pretending innocence.
‘What time is it anyway?
Is it late? Just woke,’
lies she, grinding pointed teeth.
‘I just got up to warm
some milk.’ O acid sweet.
Pupils a slit
in yellow eyes.

Fuzzled brain still doing the mambo
with Johnny Walker
rocks and rolls, reels
from cerebrum to cerebellum
hop scotches with answers
thinks a good offence
et cetera et cetera, says in a macho
slur, ‘I am the man here
and will goddamn well do
as I please.’

The Chenille Mountain erupts
spewing shirts, pants
shoes, ties, words
and him into a tumble
in the yard
Bang! goes the door.

Then weeps
as she watches him slow dance
in his closet on the lawn.