And just as the sun begins,
in frozen yogurt hues,
the third hand car with its
grinding clutch and
its squeaking brakes
rounds the corner
creeping guiltily home
and she is relieved that
he is not dead
or locked up in jail.
She stands in the open
doorway hurt and angry and
scared that he'll never
quit binging and grow up
to be a father to the boy.
That the next may be the last.
She slams the door shut.
This is it then, he thinks,
she will leave me. This is the
last time, I swear it.
One last chance.
He is sorry
again.
You're so special? You're sad!
You can't stand to be with me?
I see it coming you know...
I am not stupid, just because
I don't say....
Tortured soul artist? So...
special? You hurt us-
you hurt me. Nobody even reads that
shit but me.
Come to bed, I love you.
And so it goes, a hundred,
maybe a thousand times more-
and it will be this
one day
that makes him sad.
