The End

Then they faced each other
on the porch and divvied up
the insults. He kept fussbudget,
bawl-baby and swivel-headed nabob.
She kept jerk, cock, pansy, clown.
Goodbye to the games of day-to-day,

she said, Peek-a-boo and Doorbell Ditch
which ended in splayed fingers
and an empty stoop as they vied
for the giving end of each disappearing act.
If she closed her eyes, he couldn't see her.
She closes her eyes and he can't see her

bearing down now on this distance and barreling
past the sod farms in the pig-smelling air,
listening to the faulty heat shield
which sounds to her like a man beating
a robot with a spoon, clattered complaints
from the car's most dark and private parts.

Copyright © 2010 Dora Malech All rights reserved
from Columbia Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission