Stew Pot

He can waste time better than anyone
while she sits, guilt heavy
striving to work, to think - a luxury.

Miscellaneous noises emanate
from the bowels of the house
objects crash against cupboards, metal meeting wood.

And time flies with rapid wings
like clockwork it disappears, an
instant click of fingers snapping.

Frustration builds, simmers like stew
in a huge metal pot, the lid fits badly
lift-off - just a thunderclap away.

Ruth Mark

If you've any comments on this poem, Ruth Mark would be pleased to hear from you.