Back Burner
Picking up my children from my former home
was a practice in diplomacy, anger restrained
as I wove around broken machinery, lumber,
animal waste, in a yard I had kept pristine.
Welcome home, I muttered to myself, wrinkling
my nose against the stench of livestock roaming
freely, finally arriving at the front door, hearing
How are you? through the broken screen door
from an ex who had observed my painstaking
path, and more than likely wished me dead.
Fine, thank you, I replied through the choking, red
rage in my throat as I awaited the outside arrival
of my children, eager to sweep them swiftly away
to the clean comfort of my own new home, my
parting shot on our way to the car: Have a nice day.
Tracy Plath
Wow. This one burns my fingers.
The poem is in the same state as you are,
enraged but holding back- for example, we don’t see him…
Yes, it was about the anger, but restraint in that anger. In that sense, I was hoping to set these polite phrases on their heads, vessels for the right words masking huge feelings. Thank you for seeing that!