When the Shit Hit the Fan (HA 77 Spenserian Stanza)

House Arrest

A year ago I bought a ceiling fan
as part of the remodel. Ever since
I’ve loved it, but five days ago a man
who’s dear to me exploded. I’ve had hints
he’s overstressed, but that was evidence
of someone reeling far out of control.
The shit will need more washing than a rinse.
The cry for help is obvious and whole:
I have to clean my walls; he needs to cleanse his soul.


This entry was posted in Coronaverse, Family, Health, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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