The teacher’s union made them keep the capitol open.
Our treasured marble. Shit begins to happen.
My hopped-up husband drops his pruning loppers
And hits the streets to troll the union coppers
Freelancing out along the yellow tape
and getting himself bent out of shape.
Oh, the brainless meanness of his mien
and the spleenliness that shows up in between.
Weed-killer blind, staggering
home at four. I’m thinking now we’ll both
be on the floor.
What makes us go?
Each day now we lie
Thank God he doesn’t move to touch my thigh.
Stalled by the climacteric of his cant,
He sweats beneath me
useful sycophant.

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