Apologies to Bukowski.
As I stand, filled with wonder,
Called upstairs by the crashbangthud,
At the room torn asunder,
Before I can stop the words past my lips,
I ask you “Why?”
You’ve torn apart my labour,
Sprinklings of stuffed animals that once were,
Shine in your hair,
If I could ask this one favor,
Please don’t say back to me,
“I don’t know.”
Irrational though it may be,
I cannot leave it, you see?
To the kitchen you’re brought,
Red handed, you’re caught,
And what was it you thought-
-as you sprinkled raw oatmeal onto the cat?
I’m striving to be fair,
To insist that I care,
As the former entrails of that stuffed tiger that you once loved,
Winking at me from your still unbrushed hair,
“I don’t know”
Staring affixed at that one spot where my mind insists,
That some angry peers through the mists,
Resists the urge somehow to be pissed,
As I doggedly bring her to the living room, both wrists,
You are sad and you’re scowling,
I take a breath and insist that “you’re caught”
A trail of dried oatmeal marking the path,
Of destruction you’ve went,
And shown me the course that you’ve wrought,
“I’m sorry.”
Is not quite the answer I wanted,
But repentance is vaunted,
On lists of those attributes flaunted,
“Together we’ll clean it.”
She offered, undaunted.
I simply can’t wait till she’s six.
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