Through receding hairline crevices
embittered winds whistle;
tiny holes of woman-induced fallout
where the screws came loose
as he bent down to pull up his socks.
Sticky question marks leak gray
out onto the desk
saddling a slouching suit jacket
with mountains of screaming paperwork.
Solve this...you counterfeit stowaway!
Biting off a seething curse, he reaches
for the towelling...
3 ply - the good stuff.
He wipes up thirty years of melted marriage
and signs away a profit.
Prepared to reap the drought,
squeezes a sigh of "Oh, well"
from his big, comfortable chair.
Pardon me - Her big, comfortable chair.
Reclines, smiles and masturbates...
an unshackled prisoner of war
saluting naked before him.
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