Her mind is preoccupied
With what her boss said at work.
Him.
Always a him.
She doesn’t understand these men who think they rule the world
Accountable to no one but themselves
And other boys.
She picks up a melon,
A big one:
Green, striped, and spotted,
By the entrance.

Her son clears the table.
Pushes aside the bran flakes and rice cereal
That get too much use to put back on top of the fridge.
She grabs a knife and stabs right into it.
Cathartic –
Cutting through red fresh and tough skin.

Her daughter walks over with a plate,
Grabs a slice each for her and her dad,
Brings them to his recliner.
All four take a bite,
Juice dripping,
Water flowing,
Their cares momentarily gone,
As they reach for another slice,
And another,
Before each falling over in different corners of the room.




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