A dark poem of domestic violence and retribution.
Gasoline evaporates in the driveway
and so does the water spilled on the kitchen floor
but not the blood on the chair.
Somewhere beyond that place in the dark,
he never hesitates with the beatings
but where the Hell does it say he has the right !
Was it the pent-up anger
or was it the close proximity of the butcher knife?
Maybe it was just the sadistic look in his eyes that was the trigger.
Still, he's just as dead and there are no more screaming matches.
The water and gas evaporate but his blood is still there and won't go away . . . .