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Triangle Going South

Paul Cordeiro

I'm locked into work 16 hours
and the drive home takes another
45 minutes through Providence
which should be renamed
the potholed bend around hell.
My house whispers of lovesoaked
sheets and secrets while I'm away.
She takes a slower lover who feels conflicted
that I toil all day as he plucks off the wings
of my Asian butterfly.
Tom, whines to me like I don't know
he's the innocent party and still my buddy
and most injured by the flames which cause
his gas blower's misshapen
creations to have to get tossed.
His fingers are burnt to their ends
like a pot smoker's from too much pleasure.



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